


The Long Fall

by fine_feathered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fine_feathered/pseuds/fine_feathered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything has its place when they die. Humans go to Heaven or Hell and creatures go to Purgatory. So where do Angels go? Sam and Dean venture to the very heart of the angelic afterlife in order to bring back Castiel. But the angel has been changed and it's up to Dean to remind Castiel why they need him. Fallen foes and allies cross their path and along the way Sam, Dean and Castiel rediscover parts of themselves long forgotten or buried.<br/>(Goes AU after 7x10 - Death's Door)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This was completed for the 2012 DCBB. The art is done by the lovely http://milkbleed.livejournal.com/

 

__

**_Prologue_ **

 

Hunched over, a small figure sits in a dark wasteland. There is no horizon, no earth nor sky. There are only the shadows; the black pit in which the figure kneels in. The only break of colour is the tan trench coat, under which the white shirt and blue tie peek out with a startling lucidity. Occasionally there are flashes across the dark expanse; blank flashes that make the man jump and fidget.

 

He can feel his heart racing, beating a rabid tattoo against his ribcage. Sweat beads on his forehead and the spikes of adrenaline makes his hands shake.

 

It’s starting again and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He’s not even sure if he wants to stop it.

 

Standing, the man draws himself to his full height, eyes closed against the fathomless depths surrounding him. His eyes snap open, two pinpricks of blue radiance that cut through the shadows like search lights.

 

Another figure flickers into the dark world. Bottle green eyes stare at the being, his face wrinkled with agony; “Castiel” he murmurs softly, voice thin and reedy, “why?”

 

Castiel tries to turn away, but no matter where he looks he sees the figure.

 

“Why?” The green eyed phantom cries again. It sinks to its knees, dark blood flowing like spilled wine over his lips, “Why have you forsaken me?”

 

**_Sword_ **

The old hunting cabin creaks in the wind. Sam glances up, watching the faint outline of trees shaking against the night through the window. Books are scattered over the table where the Winchester brothers are huddled over the musty pages, the smell of dust thick in their nostrils.

 

For hours there’s only the sound of the wind howling outside and the soft hush of papers sliding over each other.

Eventually a curious hum breaks the monotony.

Glancing up from under his lashes Dean watches as Sam levers a book up from the table, the ancient-looking leather bound tome seems as if it’s ready to fall apart at any given moment.

“What you got there?” Dean asks, voice steady and level. He’s not about to give into hope, he’s done that too many times already throughout this desperate search.

 

Sam lets the book hit the table again, swivelling it around so that Dean can see the pages. “Look” Sam begins, eyes alight with triumph, “This could be it.”

 

Dean quirks a brow as he drags the book closer to himself; the words that crawl across the page are in ancient Greek, but next to them in neat pencil scratchings is a translation.

 

“Pandora’s Box…or jar…or whatever?”

 

Nodding, Sam steals the book back, earning a petulant pout from Dean who cranes his neck to steal a further peek at the page. “It looks like Bobby was working on it before he…” The pause is heavy and loaded, it needn’t be said. It was one of two reasons why they were digging through the collection of old books Bobby had stashed in Rufus’ old hunting cabin.

 

Sam clears his throat before he starts again, “Anyway, I’ve been going through Bobby’s translation and it looks as if Pandora’s Box is actually just a cover for a much bigger myth. But Bobby seems to have gotten to the heart of the story.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Dean leans back in the hard wooden chair, his legs stretched out under the table, “What? That some curious bitch opened a box she wasn’t supposed to and cursed the world? Yeah…don’t see how that would help Sammy.”

 

The corner of Sam’s lips tweak as he runs his fingers over the page, “Nope, not quite. Pandora actually stumbled upon something no one was ever meant to find…the afterlife for angels.”

 

Slowly, Dean brings the front legs of the chair back to the floorboards, mind whirling with ideas. “So what you’re saying is…she found a gateway.”

 

“Yeah, it seems that way. And if what Bobby has translated is correct we have everything we need right here to open up the entrance. It doesn’t seem that complicated actually.”

 

Huffing out a breath Dean brings himself to his feet, spine cracking as he stretches his arms above his head, “So then why hasn’t anyone tried this before? I mean just the curiosity would be enough to get people to go there.”

 

Sam’s brow furrows as he reads over the last few lines, “Because no one comes back from there. It’s practically a death sentence. From what I can tell the ritual separates the soul from the body, and thrusts the soul into this ‘angelic afterlife’. I suppose this is why Bobby never told us.”

 

Dean shakes his head, eyes narrowed with thought, “Practically?”

 

Scratching the bridge of his nose, Sam sighs, shoulders sagging under an invisible weight, “Well, it says we would need help from an angel on the other side.”

 

“We have Cas. If we can reach him he can yank us back with him…right? This is perfect Sam. He can help us fix…this,” Dean says almost at a loss of words as he gestures vaguely at the room.

 

Without speaking Sam stands to gather the ingredients for the ritual, face pinched and tight. He wants Cas back, God he does, but what the Winchesters want or need they rarely ever get.

 

Pulling open a kitchen drawer with a screech, Sam picks up a knife, using the silver blade he pries open the false bottom. A small leather pouch is exposed to the harsh light bulb that hangs overhead. Sam grabs the bag and fingers curling against it as he steels himself for what he’s about to say, “Dean…Cas wasn’t the guy we knew when he passed…y’know? He was possessed by the Leviathans, how do we know he’ll want to help us?”

 

Sam waits for the backlash. The leather pouch squeaks in his grip, the small seeds rolling around inside.

 

“Sam, you don’t have to come. But either way I’m going, ‘cos we need him.” Dean’s voice is all gravel and broken glass, beat down time after time. He’ll be damned if he’ll let this one go.

 

And even though that voice breaks Sam’s heart, he can feel his lips stretch into a small, almost forgotten smile. Trust his brother to spit in the face of destiny for family.

 

“Alright then jerk, go find some of the things off that list. Can’t have you lazing ‘round.”

 

Dean’s head jerks up, green eyes wild and flighty. Soon though he relaxes, shoulders falling to their casual set, “Bitch.”

 

Half an hour passes before the table is littered with a small museum of artefacts and rare objects; the only thing that stands out is the freshly emptied mustard jar. Tilting his head, Sam picks up the smooth jar, cool perspiration from the fridge slipping over his fingertips. “Ugh Dean….we needed a clay jar. I don’t think this is going to cut” Sam pauses to sigh, knowing he’s opening himself up for a snide grin, “…cut the mustard.”

 

Dean beams, canines peeking over his pink lips. “Don’t be a little bitch Sammy. It’ll be fine, it’s big enough for all of the ingredients and it’s made of clay. I don’t see the problem.”

 

Sam shakes his head, hair fanning around his face, “Well if it pisses off some big bad deity, it’s all your fault.” Sam states whilst he opens the bag full of dried pomegranate seeds. Their sweet scent fills the air as he drops them into the jar with a clatter. Dean watches over, checking Sam’s movements against the ritual to ensure nothing goes amiss. But Sam works on, ritual already branded into his mind. The next step has him leaning over the table to grab a half empty bottle of olive oil, which he unscrews and carefully tips the glass lip over the jar. Three golden droplets paint the dull red seeds gathered at the bottom, making them glisten under the light.

 

Next, two powders join the seeds; one a muted brown, the other bone white. Several more ingredients are mixed together until a pungent paste shimmers under the lights. With a grimace Sam dips two fingers into the cold mixture, “Alright Dean, you’re up first.”

 

Dean’s knees are strangely weak when he stands as adrenaline floods hot and sickly in his blood. He’s scared.

 

Not of the unknown or the possibility of never coming back, but of having to face Castiel again. Despite his assurances to Sam he couldn’t help that little seed of doubt from germinating in his gut. Wet lines paint his forehead, dripping down his skin in cold rivulets as Sam traces an intricate pattern with the concoction. Dean shivers, closing his eyes as he feels an odd tingling sensation, like anaesthetic, trickle from the lines on his forehead.

 

The numbing spreads down his face, paralysing his lips and throat, cascading down to his chest where his heart is starting to slow under the spell.

 

 

℘

 

 

Droplets, heavy and cold, splash his shoulders and head. Cracking open his eyelids, Dean staggers back, heels of his boots digging furrows into the muddy ground. Trees tower over him where vines spread like spider webs between the rain soaked trunks.

 

Turning in a circle, Dean surveys the new environment, nostrils flaring with the earthy scent of mud and the slight bitter tang of rotting vegetation. The night is dark but the small slice of the moon leaves a ring of visibility around Dean.   
Only seconds later dark clouds roll over, plunging Dean into complete darkness. His heavy breathing and the muted rhythm of the rain falling fill the quietude.

 

A screech rips through the night followed by several more booms and high-pitched screams. Dean jumps, fingers clutching uselessly at his side, itching for the cool reassurance of a gun resting in his palm.

 

“Dean.” The voice is frayed and breaks on the simple word.

 

Whipping around, wide jade eyes lock onto two pools of scintillating blue. There’s no face or body, just the twin dots of sapphire that are sewn onto the inky canvas of the midnight rainforest.

 

“Castiel…?” Dean leaps forward, fingers cutting through the humid air.

 

“Dean?” A hand lands on his shoulder, warm and large. Muscles clenching, Dean swings his fist in a vicious arc, only to stop an inch from the tip of Sam’s nose.

 

Sam’s hand slips form Dean’s shoulder as he takes a cautious step back, eyes narrowed with concern, “What happened Dean?”

 

Dean glances back to the space where the eyes were, moonlight now flooding the forest around them, “Nothing Sammy…I guess we got here then. The afterlife for angels or whatever.”

 

Shrugging, Sam looks up into the leafy canopy, “I guess, though I didn’t expect a jungle.”

 

The screams rips through the night again, shrill and close, with a pitch that makes their ears ring and eyes water. Sam and Dean exchange a look before they start running, boots squelching and slipping through the mud. Something roars behind them, making the trees quake and leaves flutter down from overhead.

 

Dean peeks over his shoulder as he runs next to Sam. The thing chasing them is monstrous, covered with a thick layer of steel grey fur, and even from here it smells like a sun-baked corpse. It lopes towards them on all fours, shoulders bunched tight with muscle, and its tiny round head would have gone unnoticed if it weren’t for the glowing pits of violet light that stare down at Dean and Sam as it chases them.

 

They leap over a fallen log, pushing through the thick undergrowth that clings to them like greedy hands.

 

There’s an almighty crack as the beast barrels through a tree, the great ancient groans before it crashes to the forest floor. The impact makes Sam stumble, breaking his momentum. The beast sees the opportunity and launches forward, ape like hands snatching Sam’s leg.

 

“Dean!”

 

Dean turns, watching as the beast drags Sam towards him, strings of sulphurous yellow saliva flow from its jaws, teeth long and pointed. Dean makes to run but is stopped as a bright light to his side beckons him. Squinting, Dean looks into the light billowing from the swirling knot of a tree trunk. With a smirk Dean walks over to the tree and pulls the weapon free from its sheath of wood.

 

Sam’s fingers scrabble uselessly for purchase against the gigantic hand gripping his leg. His nails dig long lines into the soil as he feels himself slide closer to the monster. With a strangely human laugh it’s head tips forward, neck elongating so that it’s teeth are hovering above Sam’s face.

 

“Don’t worry Sam, I’ll kill you gently.”

 

With a cry Sam kicks out, hard heel of his boot smashing through the rows of needle like teeth framing the beast’s mouth. Howls of anguish rip through the jungle clearing, black ooze dripping from the rent gums. The eyes narrow, hand squeezing around Sam’s shin. Jaw clenched, Sam tries to pry the beast’s hand away, but he can feel the pressure building, pound after pound forcing its way down through his skin and flesh and into his bones. There’s an agonizing moment of clarity where the snap of his bone is the only sound Sam hears. He can feel the bone splintering and cutting into flesh, forced to tear into muscles and tendons.

 

The beast suddenly howls in agony once more, hand finally leaving Sam’s leg. The scene playing out in front of Sam seems distant, almost like a memory of an old movie. Dean is standing next to the beast, hands wrapped around a silver angel blade that shines like a flare through the pervading gloom. The blade swings down again plunging deeply into the beast’s thick hide. It writhes in great twitching movements as it tries to dislodge Dean and the sword buried into its flank, but he holds fast, even as shining black blood bathes his arms and soaks his chest.

 

Then all of a sudden it’s gone, as if it were never there.

 

For a moment Dean stands in the clearing, chest heaving with deep breaths as he shivers under the thick coating of slime, hand still wrapped around the cool handle of the blade. He takes a moment to examine the sword in his hand. It seems familiar, the weight of it is just right, perfectly balanced, and the smooth metal is a caress on his scarred palm. It just _fits_.

 

Sam feels the pull of unconsciousness insistently tugging at him, beckoning him, as the pain begins to numb his senses: overwhelming him. There’s no point in fighting, Deans right there with him. Sam’s head lolls to the side, body going lax as he passes out.

 

A breeze washes over them as the familiar sound of fluttering wings breaks the air.   
Castiel is wide-eyed, face dirtied with flakes of drying blood and stark white streaks of where tears have run their tracks.

 

“Dean” he cries, his voice a poor memory of what it once was, “Is it you? But I thought that, no…” the rest trails of in a hysterical blabber, nonsense that tumbles in a free-fall from Castiel’s cracked and peeling lips.

 

Dean stares at the angel as he wrings his hands, tongue heavy, unable to move or utter a word.

 

Castiel’s trench coat hangs from his thin shoulders, tattered remains skirting around the muddied black business trousers and scuffed shoes.

 

“Cas, c’mon” Dean begins weakly, gaze skirting over to Sam’s unconscious form,  “You gotta come with us…gotta get you outta here.”

 

Castiel finally stops speaking. The silence is deafening, worse than the aftermath of any grenade or shotgun going off. Slowly he lifts his gaze to Dean, lips quivering and twitching.

 

They’re not the eyes that Dean remembers. They’re blank and empty, feverish and glassy. But beneath all of that there’s agony.

 

They’re not the eyes of the soldier who rescued him from Hell. Nor the eyes of the friend that had smiled at him at the end of days. They were lost.

The eyes scan over Dean, taking in his mud stained jeans and ripped green shirt. They pause when they reach Dean’s hand, which still holds the angel-killing blade.

 

“Dean, please give it back…my sword…I lost it.” Castiel’s lips barely move as he ekes out the words, blue gaze returning to Dean’s.

 

Dean feels himself step forward, he’s reaching out again.

 

The angel flinches and retreats a step, “Don’t touch me Dean. I don’t want to hurt you…not again, I keep doing it…I can’t stop. It’s not my fault. Please, just leave my sword on the ground.”

 

Dean licks away the salt on his lips, skin aching just to touch the stiff cotton of Castiel’s coat. With a nod, Dean relents; placing the blade on the floor and takes a step back from it, leaving the blade as a dividing line between them.  “It’s okay Cas. I think I understand now why you did it…worked with Crowley, opened Purgatory. But we got to put it right, we need your help to get rid of the Leviathans.”

 

Castiel jerks, like a video missing a frame. His lips stretch into a vulgar grin, parting to reveal ivory teeth where black slime oozes from the gaps like melting piano keys. The blade is in the angel’s grip but no longer is it polished silver, it’s dark grey and bears the many scars and stains of a millennia of battle.

 

Sam groans, stirring to wakefulness. Like mist, Castiel disappears leaving only the searing dots of bright blue light on Dean’s irises.

 

“Dean” Sam calls; head foggy with pain as he props himself up on an elbow. The rain has started up again, bringing the jungle back to life with the familiar sound and clean scent. Dean turns to face Sam; skin pale as he walks over to him, “Shit, Sam. Your leg…”

 

Sam grimaces as he looks down at the unnatural angle. “How’re we gonna deal with this?”

 

The answer comes in the form of a bright red door. It’s as if it’s always been there, clear as day it stands before them. Grabbing Sam under his armpits Dean shoulders his weight, allowing Sam to throw an arm around the back of his rain sodden neck.

 

Carefully they walk across the churned mud, staring at the red door. A round gold handle glints at them, raindrops winking from the surface. Readying himself, Dean sucks in a breath of the crisp air and lets his hand wrap around the handle.

 

The door opens easily and without a sound, beyond it lies a dark corridor lit intermittently with golden spheres of floating light. “Alright Sammy?” Dean asks as they stare into the immeasurable abyss of the corridor.

 

A wan smile breaks through the pain, “Yeah.”

 

Sam is warm and solid against him, a comforting balm against the fear lancing through Dean as he steps from brackish mud to plush ruby carpet.

 

The door swings close behind them, clicking into place.

 

“Hello boys!”

 

The golden balls of light flare brightly, banishing the gloom and revealing the Trickster; God’s messenger himself.

 

Dean groans in disbelief, head hanging.

 

Yet Sam finds himself grinning, fingers clenching into Dean’s damp shirt, “Gabriel!”

 

**_Bone_ **

 

 

Dean doesn’t even bother lifting his head, merely sighs and lets his shoulders sink with despair “Can you get this over with and just kill me already?”

 

Gabriel smirks, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he takes in the battered appearance of the Winchester brothers.

 

“Sure thing Dean, if that’s what you want. I was thinking of helping you…buuuut if you really miss Trickster Gabriel, I’m sure I can rustle up some amusing death scenes. How does death by pogo stick sound?”

 

Dean’s head jerked up even as Sam somehow manages to dig an elbow into his side to try and make his big brother shut his even larger mouth, “Really? You want to help us…Why?”

 

Skipping forward Gabriel clicks his fingers, grinning like the Cheshire Cat all the while. Suddenly the corridor switches to a plush bar covered with red velvet and gold satin, replete with naked servers ferrying drinks and candies.  “Because you boys are going to boot my little bro Cas out of here whether he likes it or not.”

 

Sam stumbles away from Dean, standing on his own two feet. The blazing thrum of pain that used to be his broken leg was back to its normal self and even Dean was no longer dripping black tar onto the carpet.

 

Sam sighs with relief, wriggling his toes in his boots just to confirm everything was back in working order, “Thanks Gabriel” Sam breathes as he looks over at the smug satisfaction painted on the archangel’s face. “No problem kiddo.”

 

Dean watches the naked waiters milling about the opulent space, but stiffens when he spies a familiar face. “What the hell?”

 

There, in all his nude glory was an exact replica of Sam Winchester. The copy winked at Dean and walked over with his tray of Pina Coladas.  When you grow up with someone in tight quarters, the idea of nudity being scandalous got old quick. But every little detail of this copy was correct; the white ribbon of scar tissue running around his bicep, the demon ward tattooed over his muscled chest and even the little mole on Sam’s inner thigh were all there.

 

Sam blushes, averting his eyes from his body double as though to preserve some modicum of dignity, “Ugh Gabriel, why is there a doppelganger of me?”

 

Waltzing over Gabriel gave the double’s ass a tight squeeze as he swiped a drink from off the tray. Gabriel deigned to let the brothers fidget uncomfortably as he took the first sip of the sharp yet sweet pineapple juice and smooth rum.

 

“Because boys this is my little patch of the afterlife and this is what I want. I know why Lucy wanted to take you to the prom Sam.” He adds with a meaningful prolonged stare at the Doppelganger’s rear. “Anyway,” with another snap of his fingers the waiters were gone but even the upbeat music pulsing in the room did nothing to banish the awkward atmosphere.

 

Gesturing to a ruby red booth at the side of the room Gabriel teleports over, nursing his drink as he watches Sam and Dean sidle onto the opposite bench.

 

Two drinks appear before them, a cool perspiring bottle of El Sol beer for Dean and a Café Amore for Sam. At the choice of drink Sam raises a brow, making Gabriel shrug, “Your double likes it.”

 

Dean grabs the bottle of beer, emptying a third of the refreshing liquid down his gullet in one foul sweep. Wiping a hand across his mouth Dean glares over at Gabriel, finger pointed threateningly at the archangel, “Let’s not mention that perverted piece of your imagination again.”

 

Gabriel hums his acceptance through the pink straw of his cocktail, “Whatever big boy, we have more important things to discuss. Like how this place works. It’s a miracle you got away from Uriel might I add.”

 

Sam splutters into his drink, coughing slightly as he digests Gabriel’s words, “You mean that ape…monster, thing…was Uriel, the dead angel?”

 

Gabriel nods, “Spot on. You already knew this place was a sort of afterlife for angels right? But what you didn’t know is that each angel gets a little slice, like Heaven for you mooks. However for angels there’s no Heaven or Hell, so how do we get what we deserve you might ask?”

 

Dean snorts through his nostrils, “Yeah, I really could care less.”

 

“Dean” Sam warns, brows drawing together in annoyance.

 

“Anyway,” Gabriel continues, “God made it so that each angel’s perspective is their reward or punishment. If the angel thinks they did good in life then they get a good afterlife. If they’re feeling guilty about something this place twists that guilt into something tangible in order to torture them. You see boys this whole place runs on perspective and imagination…which is what makes your friend Cas so dangerous.”

 

Dean’s fingers tighten on the bottle, beads of cool perspiration slipping over his skin, “I saw Cas.” Dean murmurs, eyes locked on the black vinyl of the table.

 

Sam bites his lip, white canine chewing on the sensitive skin thoughtfully, “That’s why you were so freaked out when we got here then…but Gabe, what makes Cas so dangerous?”

 

There’s a slight hush of fabric rubbing against each other as Gabriel leans back in his seat, “As I said before, this place runs on perspective and imagination and Cas has the biggest guilt complex you wouldn’t believe, not to mention that he was always the odd ball of the garrison for always thinking outside the box, using his brain rather than blindly following orders. For an angel Cas is practically Vincent Van Gogh, The Beetles and Isaac Newton all rolled into one. So it’s all of that plus the fact that he’s gone guano due to the effects of the Leviathans. So yeah, he’s the big player here and we all want him out, he’s causing a ruckus. I mean just look at what he did to Uriel, that jungle used to be a beautiful garden and Uriel was just as magnificent.” Pausing, Gabriel’s fingers play with a bead of water on the table, swirling it into intricate patterns, “All of that guilt inside of Castiel is torturing him and he’s snapping. It won’t be long now before he thinks he’s the Leviathan.”

 

There’s a deathly quiet after Gabriel’s spoken, the air is thick with tension as Dean stands. For a moment he just stares down at Gabriel, eyes alight and shoulders tense. His knuckles are polished ivory as he grips the bottle of beer. Gabriel meets Dean’s eyes and in the honey brown depths there’s a flicker of power, a flash of silver like a dagger slicing through fog and it's in that moment Sam is reminded of the fact that this is an archangel, and even dead, with so much as a thought he could snuff them both out. Yet Dean is undeterred as he stares at the angel. With a thump Dean sets the bottle of beer down and strides out of the room, flinging open a door that slams behind him.

 

There’s a thumping in Dean’s head, a pulse that sits right behind his eyes and whites out his vision. That cool glass bottle felt so good in his hands, the urge to smash it against the table and drive the broken edge into Gabriel’s neck would’ve felt good. Dean stops walking and leans his back against the wall, staring down at a shoelace that’s come undone on his brown boot. But he didn’t because everything Gabriel said was true; he’d seen how unhinged Cas was. Admitting that, even in the privacy of his own mind sent a painful twinge right through his chest.

 

Castiel’s the big brother Dean had always wanted. He loved being Sam’s superhero when they were little, chasing away the bad dreams with stories of valour and tickling matches. But there were times when the motel room was quiet, little Sam was asleep and he was all by himself, awake with only his thoughts into the greying hours of dawn. Sometimes he wished he had someone to tuck him in and tell him he was going to be okay.

 

For a while Cas had been that person. No, he never told him stories or tucked him in that would have been weird. But Cas had fought beside him, shed blood for him and told Dean secrets no other creature ever knew and in return Dean did the same for Cas. It was…nice.

 

Dean sighs and rolls his shoulders, setting his jaw. He’s here to get a job done. The chick flick moments can come later, he resolved. Dean goes to push himself off the wall, but where there was once smooth metallic wallpaper there’s now nothing but air.

 

Stumbling backwards, Dean’s hand latches onto the hard wooden slat of a bench’s back.

It’s just like the one in the park where Cas confessed his doubts, and just like that sunny day the angel is sitting on the end of the bench; dark hair tousled and tie askew.

 

The park bench is so out of place in Gabriel’s realm that Dean can’t help the small rumble of laughter from rolling over his lips. Castiel turns his head slightly to look at Dean; the corner of his lips is hitched in a subtle smile.

 

As Dean seats himself on the bench, boots scuffing the carpet, he remembers what Gabriel said, that Castiel is the most dangerous thing in this screwed up place. But when Castiel turns to him, fingers scrunching up the edges of his clean trench coat, Dean doesn’t want to believe it.

 

“Hey Cas, last time you were in a place like this you called it… what was it? A den of…?”

 

“Iniquity” Castiel finishes for him with another of his hidden smiles.

 

They’re silent for a while. Dean just sits on the bench, one arm thrown over the back whilst Castiel gazes at Dean, looking him up and down like he’s a work of art. Castiel suddenly moves, falling to one knee in front of Dean.

 

Bottle green hued eyes widen as Dean looks down at Castiel kneeling in front of him. A hundred different things are running through his mind, all increasingly ridiculous; supplication, a proposal, something a little more sinful.

 

As though sensing his thoughts Castiel snorts and shakes his head, alabaster fingers deftly running over the laces that have come undone. Methodically he ties the laces together, chapped lips pushed out as he concentrates on his task. It takes a little while but soon Dean has a perfect bow on his boot. Castiel leans back on his haunches as he surveys his work.

 

“Ugh, Cas?” Dean asks, voice strangely thin and quiet in the room.

 

In one smooth motion Castiel is standing and has his hands are tucked into his pockets, “I’ve never tied a shoelace before. I wanted to try it.”

 

Dean raises a brow sceptically, “Don’t yours ever come undone?”

 

Castiel’s head tilts to the side, hawkish and curious, “No Dean, that would be very inconvenient.”

 

Dean can’t help but laugh, it’s been a long time and it hurts his sides and makes his eyes prick with hot water but it feels so damn good.

Castiel frowns at the laughter, brow corrugating as Dean is bent over with his arms wrapped around his stomach.

 

Dean’s eyes are still glistening with tears when he raises his head and leans back against the bench, “So Cas, you ready to come back with us? Y’know, fight the good fight, stop the world from ending bloody?”

 

That thin veneer of relaxation and contentment leaves Castiel as his shoulders droop and eyes harden to a dark icy blue. “Dean, Gabriel will help you leave. I will not return to Earth.”

 

The refusal leaves Dean stunned, air bottled tight in his lungs. His jaw is stiff as he unhinges it to speak, “Gabriel wants you out of here, and at any rate we ain’t leaving without you Cas. _I’m_ not leaving without you. I know you may not want to come back but…”

 

“Enough” Castiel’s word cuts through Dean. “Sam should be able to convince Gabriel. He’ll have to, because I’m not going back, this is what I deserve. The body count…what I did to Sam...What I did was unforgivable and I will face my punishment here with the remnants of my dignity.”

 

In a blink Castiel is gone. The little tendon on Dean’s jaw line presses up against his tanned skin as he grinds his teeth together. Adding insult to injury the park bench is gone, replaced with a velvet purple sofa. “Cas, I know you’re listening,” Dean begins as he stands, snarl wrinkling the sides of his nose, “You can’t run from your problems and you can’t run from me. And you’re right; we will get Gabriel to help us. He’s going to point us in the right direction and tell us how to drag your feathery ass back home.”

 

 

℘

 

 

It’s true that Castiel is listening, far away in the nightmarish landscape of his own dimension. Dean’s words ring true and brand themselves like an oath or a threat. Castiel begins to walk, monstrous black wings rustling like dry leaves in response to his agitation and his worries.

 

The black ooze of the leviathan starts to ripple over his feathers, dragging the long flight feathers to the floor so that lines of the horrid black slime cut through the nondescript floor.

 

Seeing Dean’s anger, the betrayal in his eyes was all too familiar. He’s failed his charge once more all because he’s too afraid. Too afraid to have faith in Dean and face his fears.

 

 

℘

 

 

Gabriel is waiting at the closed double doors when Dean returns, a smug grin on his face. It’s clear that the angel knows about Castiel’s little visit.

“So Dean, I’m sure your old pal just couldn’t wait to get home huh?”

 

The tips of Dean’s boots brush the shiny black polish off Gabriel’s leather shoes, their chests are practically touching as Dean steps up to him, “You already knew he didn’t want to come back and you know that I’m going to grab him by the thick and curlies and yank him back to Earth if I have to.”

 

The doors open, allowing Gabriel to bounce back from Dean, “Yeah I know, I just like to mess with you a little.”

 

Sam is still sitting in the booth; an empty glass sits next to him as he sips from another coffee cocktail.

When Sam sees Dean he hastily puts the glass down, wiping the back of his hand over his lips as though he’s a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. For a horrifying little moment Dean wonders just how similar Gabriel’s replica of Sam is and what the archangel uses him for besides eye candy.

 

Dean suppresses a shiver and walks into the room after the archangel, “So Gabriel, you going to tell us how exactly we’re supposed to get Cas out of here?”

 

“Sure” Gabriel chirrups, “It’s really quite simple. Even you mutton heads can’t get it wrong.”  With a little hop Gabriel sits on the table and snatches Sam’s drink away, taking a large and audible gulp of the bitter liquid. “All you have to do is journey through each angel’s realm. In each realm there’s an object Castiel has lost in his long life or forgotten about. Castiel will act a bit like Charon, a ferryman. When you hand over each object he’ll let you pass into the next realm, letting you get one step closer to his own realm. From there you two can drag him back to Earth.”

 

Sam snatches his drink back, wiping the rim of the glass with his thumb with a petulant scowl. Gabriel frowns then shrugs, clicking his fingers so that another drink appears, though this one is a sickly pink. Crossing his arms over his chest, Dean’s disapproval at his brother cavorting with such an asshole radiates off him in waves. “But what if Cas doesn’t take the object, we’re screwed right?” Dean queries, wishing for a drink of his own to relax his nerves as he stares down his nose at Gabriel, whose cheeks were currently hollowed as he sucked up as much liquor as possible.

 

Gabriel shakes his head as he swallows, a satisfied sigh leaving him as he smacks his lips, “Nope, each item is going to hold a special significance to Castiel. He won’t be able to help himself from taking it.”

 

Tucking his hands into his jean pockets, Gabriel fidgets, tongue licking over his lips as he searches through them. Finally he pulls out a slender white bone. Carefully Gabriel lays it in Dean’s upturned palm. Sam walks over to inspect the piece, deep brown eyes narrowed as he examines it. “Is that a fish-bone?”

 

The archangel nods and smiles faintly, “Yep, it’s very special to Castiel. Good luck boys.”

 

The doors behind them blow open and when Dean and Sam turn Gabriel is gone and Castiel is there, walking towards them. The doors close silently behind him as he approaches them. Compared to before Castiel’s skin is ashen and dark rings frame the blues of his eyes. When Castiel is standing only inches away, Dean notices a trickle of black fluid dripping off Castiel’s brow. Silently Dean holds out the fish-bone, half expecting Castiel to turn it down. After all, what could an angel what with an old bone? But as soon as Castiel sees it his eyes soften with fondness, the lines of weariness creasing his forehead disappear as he picks up the bone with his thumb and forefinger. There’s the slightest touch of Castiel’s fingertips against Dean’s palm and that little patch of skin thrums with sensation.

 

“Castiel” Sam breathes. Dean had almost forgotten that this was Sam and Castiel’s first meeting in months. Castiel’s gaze is torn from the fish-bone and the angel immediately stiffens his eyes widening and his lips part with a gasp. “Sam” Castiel whispers, “I’m so sorry for what I did to you.”

 

Sam reaches out to Castiel, fingers just about to connect with the angel’s shoulders when the room explodes with startling white light.

 

 

**_Amulet_ **

Here he is safe, in this desiccated wasteland; grey spaces and black pools of poisoned water. Not from himself of course, that‘s something he can never outrun.

 

Seeing Sam and Dean together again, just like old times. It…

 

_It hurt too much._

 

Torrid breath moistens the nape of Castiel’s neck. He can smell the stench of ozone and blood on the creature behind him; he doesn’t need to see it to know what it is. Regardless, Castiel turns around, facing a mirror version of himself, one possessed by the Leviathan. Perhaps it’s not so much a mirror as something inside him clawing its way out. “You’re a coward Castiel. You’re afraid to do what’s needed. And that makes me a coward, which makes me _very_ unhappy.”

 

Castiel meets the Leviathan’s gaze, ignoring the black fluid seeping like tears from its frosty eyes. “You do realise they’re getting closer don’t you? You know Sam, and more importantly you know Dean. He’s stubborn and he needs you to fix that godless world. Just another blunt instrument in their arsenal. Look at how they thanked you last time for it. Sam stabbed you in the back and Dean let you drown without so much as a blink.” A harsh bark of laughter bursts from the Leviathan’s lips, “You’re a tool to be used at their whim. So just stay here…” the Leviathan whispers, voice dropping an octave, becoming silk. It runs its hands down Castiel’s chest, fingernails catching on little white buttons and tracing lines of sculpted muscle, “Just give in to me.”

 

There’s a gust of wind, wings beating against the still air. “You don’t really believe that do you Castiel?”

 

It had been a long time since Castiel had last seen this particular figment of his imagination.

The Leviathan’s lips peel back in a snarl, “I thought I’d killed you.”

 

The angel steps forward, thumbs hooked over his jean’s pockets. “Sorry to disappoint you.”  Jade green eyes meet Castiel’s; making his heart stutter with hope and something he doesn’t quite understand yet. But at the same time his stomach drops and his face floods with the heat of his shame. He has betrayed this part of himself.  The angelic version of Dean steps closer, great tawny wings gently fanning the air. “The Leviathan’s right about one thing Cas, you do know me.”

 

Castiel retreats a step, fingers threading through his soft hair. His head feels like it’s splitting, that someone’s driving a long nail painfully…slowly, right down through the top.

 

The pressure expands like a balloon in his skull and it seems to increase as a new voice joins the fray. “You know” the tired voice starts, “The Leviathan’s got a point. Daddy’s gone and the world can’t wait to slit it’s own throat. It ends with blood no matter how hard you try.”

 

The bitter taste of bile cloys on Castiel’s tongue as he pivots to face the human version of himself, the vision of Castiel that Dean met in a possible 2014. In its hand is a distinctive orange bottle that rattles with little white pills. There’s a pop as the human version of himself pours a couple of the tablets down his throat, a subtle grimace creasing his brow as he swallows the acidic medicine dry. “”You will crack eventually. I’m evidence of that. Even with Dean around it can’t be helped.”

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose Castiel scrunches his eyes closed, so tight that they begin to burn and the static buzzing in his skull escalates into a clamorous ringing.

 

Something wet presses against his lips.

Blue eyes snap open, staring into the depths of the Leviathan’s own sapphire orbs. “Are you convinced yet?” It whispers against his lips, tongue peeking out to lick a line over Castiel’s pliant lower lip. Clenching his fists at his side Castiel exhales through his nostrils as a decision begins to form in his mind. His lips part with a wet click, inviting the Leviathan. It smiles, palms fitting themselves over the firm line of Castiel’s shoulder.

 

Bottle green eyes stare at him from behind the Leviathan, the eyes rounded with shock and pinched at the corners with disappointment.

 

Disappointment… _again_.

Castiel stumbles backwards, hands pushing the Leviathan away from him just as the Leviathan’s onyx stained tongue began to peek between its ashen lips. 

 

Striding past the abomination, Castiel closes the space between him and Dean. The black wings sprouting from his back perk up, flight feathers tentatively brushing over Dean’s own golden freckled wings. The vision of Dean reciprocates, folding his larger wings over Castiel’s own, cocooning him from the ugliness of his realm. Dean’s head falls forward, forehead gently pressed against Castiel’s brow. In this nest of golden light and feathers the pain in Castiel’s head begins to subside. Fingers interlace with his and he breathes a heavy sigh. “Thank you Cas” Dean murmurs.

  
 

Castiel feels the thin flesh of his eyelids grow heavy, as though sleep tries to claim him. The bunched muscles in his shoulders begin to loosen but a scream jettisons him back into his nightmare; re-imagined and worse than any other torture he had previously conceived in his realm.

 

Fingers wriggle like crimson maggots from Dean’s chest, he gasps, creating bloody bubbles on his plump lips. Castiel can do nothing but watch as Dean’s wings droop, slipping off of his own with a whisper. The Leviathan is grinning, hand thrust through Dean’s chest. With a brutal tug it wrenches its hand free, making Dean slump to the floor.

 

He falls to his knees beside Dean, whose eyes are darkening and becoming glassy with death. Even though warm blood is bathing him, Dean smiles for Castiel. “It’s going to be okay Cas.”

 

Dean slumps and his eyes are still creased with a smile. He knows that this isn’t really Dean, just another part of himself that has fallen under the Leviathan but the cry that rips from his chest and out through his throat is real, raw and bloody.

 

Castiel’s hands slide over the gory mess bathing Dean’s shirt, the smell of copper engulfing his senses.

 

Maniacal lilting laughter splinters Castiel’s sobs. Looking up, he watches as the Leviathan licks the dark blood from his fingertips with a contented hum. By the Leviathan’s feet is the 2014 vision of Castiel, skin gone blue.

 

The Leviathan hunches over Castiel, draping his bloodied arm over his back, smearing Dean’s blood down his trench coat. “That was very foolish to defy me Castiel. I would have let them live you know. But now…” The Leviathan pauses to grip Castiel’s shoulder, fingers curling so that his nails bite into the angel’s soft flesh, “Now it’s just you and me in here. All alone. Game over for you my little bird.” The Leviathan tugs his face towards him and presses a kiss onto Castiel’s lips, claiming him with the glowing hot brand.

 

℘

 

 

Black spots bloom over their eyes, blinding them both. Swearing, Dean digs his knuckles into his eyes whilst Sam blinks rapidly, trying to catch small glimpses of the new realm Castiel has thrown them into.

 

But no matter how many times Sam tries to blink away the walls of white, they never melt into objects and scenery.

 

Holding his hands out in front of him Sam wriggles his calloused fingers in front of him. It’s as if he’s on a huge white canvas or screen and him and Dean are the centrepieces. “Dean, I think this is it.”

 

Dean stops rubbing at his eyes and squints into the glaring white space. “Well someone had a fetish for white,” he intones helpfully.

 

There’s nothing around them, no line separating ground from horizon or anything to break up the space. They start walking.

 

Walking, walking and walking.

 

There’s no end and no change. No sound, no smell or anything to see. If limbo was real, this was it.

 

“Are we missing something here? I swear to God if I don’t get out of here I’m going to rip out my eyes!” Dean yells into the space, eyes gone bloodshot from the glare. As though his prayers were heard, there is a change.

 

A small figure lies on its side, just up ahead. Red hair flows from the figure’s scalp and pools on the floor, a head wound that won’t stop bleeding. The faint sound of sobbing begins to reach them, little aborted gasps and snivels that despite the strange silence of the place is still hard to hear.

 

Dean and Sam stop a good distance away, sending each other confused and worried little glances. They haven’t forgotten what Uriel was like.

The pit of Dean’s stomach is a roiling pot of acid and his throat is tight, making his words seem sharp, “Hey, you okay?” He knows who this is, had felt that hot skin beneath his fingertips and let the soft red hair slip over his shoulders. The crying stops and the figure sits up.

 

With slow methodical movements the figure turns itself around, but remains seated on the floor so that it must gaze up at Dean and Sam.

 

Her eyes are gone, two dark sockets with black scabs and red flakes of blood decorating the bruised skin. She starts to whimper again, lips pale and corpse-like. Her hands trail up the sides of her face, nails caked with congealed blood.

 

_“It hurt too much.”_

 

As those words finally broke the pregnant hush the white begins to part, a curtain slowly peeling back to display a world filled with stainless steel objects and the bitter scent of disinfectant. Anna is no longer sitting curled up on the floor, instead the listless angel is ensconced in blankets, but the hollow pits of her eyes remain.

 

“There’s just so much white isn’t there? I have been in here for years and I couldn’t take it any more. Being blind is better than seeing.”

 

Sam grabs Dean’s arm, fingers a vice as he drags Dean’s stationary body away from Anna’s bed. The angel’s lips curve upwards into a three year olds smile; simple and strangely innocent.

 

“Dean,” Sam utters softly, “She’s not going to help us.” With a rigid nod, Dean lets Sam pull him away and into the corridor. The air is suddenly colder, bringing goose-pimples to Dean’s skin. Sam’s hand trails away as he begins to explore what seems to be a hospital, but Dean remains where he is for a moment longer, shoes glued to the sunshine yellow linoleum. Anna still sports her smile; skin polished marble and lips cracked and thin. Dean wonders if this is Anna punishing herself, or rewarding herself for that smile speaks of naïve happiness.

 

A hospital nurse bustles by; her shoulder brushes Dean, effectively snapping him out of his reverie. Dean turns away from Anna, not sparing her another look as he joins Sam at the end of the corridor. Compared to the complete absence of sound previously, this place is a hive of activity; nurses, doctors and visitors are threads weaving between one another as they disappear down fluorescent-lit corridors and slip into private rooms. Shoes tap the hard floors, the wheels of gurneys squeak and there’s a general electrified hum to the air.

 

It would have been just like any other hospital Dean had visited if it weren’t for the inexplicable feeling of _wrong_. Hunters learned to trust their gut. Sam looks to him, hazel eyes burrowing into his as he silently confirms with just a look what Dean had already thought. Not that anything here in the ‘afterlife’ could be trusted.

 

“Well” Sam starts, “Where should we look first?”

Dean shrugs and walks over to a window where a strawberry pink blind covers the glass. Gripping the white drawstring Dean gives it a tug. Harsh light floods into the hospital, blinding Dean and banishing the corridors and rooms, returning them to the white landscape.

 

“Dean!” Sam cries, hands digging into his thick hair, “I hope you’re still holding the string.”

 

Swallowing around the thick ball of tension pitted in his throat, Dean nods, ears ringing with the sudden absence of sound. Off in the distance he can see Anna again, curled up into a tight motionless ball. Yanking on the string the blind cascades down, pink replacing white and sounds replacing silence. The hospital is back.

 

Wiping a hand across his brow Dean catches a bead of sweat as he turns on his heel, meeting Sam’s exasperated expression. “What?” Dean asks, “It’s not like I knew that was going to happen. But I guess that means that whatever it is we’re looking for is in the hospital.”

 

Sam merely shakes his head, hair slipping over his ears as he marches down the corridors. “Oh come on Sammy!” Dean calls as he dodges a few doctors traipsing in long coats, “I won’t do it again.” Sam merely keeps walking, hiding the smirk that’s prodding at his mouth. It was just too easy to get Dean riled up sometimes.

 

Catching a glimpse of the poorly hidden smirk Dean lightly slaps Sam’s shoulder, “Bitch.” With a playful punch to Dean’s arm Sam speeds up, ducking down into another corridor, “Jerk”.

 

They wander the rooms and corridors in the hospital for what seems like hours to no avail. Every room is the same, as though the artist that drew the designs of the hospital got bored and merely made copies of all his sketches. The small rooms possess a bed that’s always empty, with a petite table next to it that always holds two orange daisies. Next in size are the rooms with three beds, two olive green armchairs and a bathroom to the side. After that are the operating rooms that house everything one would expect. Then there are the numerous waiting rooms, headed by a reception desk that is always unmanned.

 

It’s at one of these waiting rooms that Dean and Sam find themselves in, slumped in plastic cobalt chairs. Sam’s long legs are stretched out in front of him, feet aching from hours of walking through the repetitive hospital. Dean is hunched forward, Styrofoam cup filled with coffee clutched between his palms. The heat effusing into his skin feels good, the chill of the hospital soaks through his thin green shirt and the coffee helps a little.

 

Bringing the coffee to his lips, Dean breathes in the steam, moistening his lips. The taste of bitter cheap drink proliferates on his taste buds. “Well the coffee is just as bad as a real hospital” Dean deadpans, which only garners him an exhausted groan from Sam. Sitting up in his chair, Sam lets his head roll in a circle to relieve the tenderness from his neck. “Come on Dean, we’ve looked everywhere, we must have missed something.”

Sighing into his coffee, Dean sets the cup down onto an adjacent seat. “The last two items were given to us, remember? It’s only when Uriel appeared to try and kill us-“ Sam snorts, hand unconsciously running over the leg Uriel had snapped. Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth Dean continues “-and then Gabriel gave us the fish-bone. I think we have to get through to Anna, this is her realm after all. She’ll have what we’re looking for or at least know where it is.”

 

Pushing his hands against his knees Dean stands, tired bones clicking despite his age. Sam follows after him, hands flexing at his sides like they always do before a fight. Dean battles another sigh, he hopes that Anna doesn’t bare a grudge against them, though could he really blame her? Sure she tried to kill Sam but it was in an effort to stop the Apocalypse.

 

It’s eerie how quickly they’re back at Anna’s room. A shiver ripples down Dean’s spine as he enters her room, that smile is still plastered onto her face. “Hey Anna” Dean begins, relieved to feel Sam at his side. “We want to help Cas, can you point us in the right direction?” Slowly Anna’s head turns towards Dean’s voice and the smile leeches from her face. The room shudders, walls flickering in and out of existence as Anna trembles on her bed. “Castiel…” she whispers, “He’s making everything worse. I don’t…he came here before you two arrived. He wasn’t…himself…he nearly destroyed me and my realm…and even though I couldn’t see him I knew…he wasn’t himself.”

 

The walls shift back into place as Anna raises her chin, a strange defiance is effused in the set of her shoulders, “You can fix him Dean, but not in here. The longer he’s here the worse he’ll become. You have to get him out.” With a bitter smile Anna shakes her head, making several stray strands of hair stick to the scabs decorating the sockets of her eyes. “It may already be too late but you deserve a chance.”

 

Ping. An elevator arrives. Where there was once a blank wall in Anna’s room there is now the reflective silver interior of an elevator. Anna ducks her head, hair curtaining her face, “Go…Castiel” the name is bitten out as though it pains the dead angel to say it, “He’ll know you’re getting close to the next object and who knows what he’ll be like.”

 

Sam needs no further encouragement as he steps into the elevator. There’s only one black button on the elevator’s panel. Dean lingers a moment then lays a hand on Anna’s shoulder, “I’m sorry about how it all ended.” Anna doesn’t move but the room shakes again, forcing Dean to stumble backwards lest he loose his footing. Taking the message Dean quickly enters the elevator, allowing Sam to stab the button with his finger. The doors whoosh closed.

 

The sensation of dropping too fast has Sam and Dean’s stomach dancing in their throats. Several choice profanities fly from Dean’s tongue as he grips the cool silver railing for support. All too suddenly the elevator lurches to a stop and the doors slide open.

 

Freezing cold air billows into the elevator. If Dean thought the hospital was cold the icy atmosphere of the new dark corridor stretching out in front of him is nothing in comparison. Their breath mists in front of them as they step out the elevator. It pings and the doors close. Glancing over his shoulder, Dean notes that the elevator is gone, once again there’s only an unobstructed expanse of white washed wall.

 

Sam and Dean start walking down the corridor; it squeezes them tight together so that their shoulders brush with nearly every step. Neon tubes of light flicker overhead, setting Dean’s teeth on edge. The chill, the cranky electrics and the eldritch atmosphere that wraps its sticky arms around them reminds him of all the ghost hunts where someone gets killed.

 

Two doors are at the end of the corridor. The olive green paint flakes off the wood as Sam touches it. Inhaling a deep breath Dean’s fingers wrap around the door handle and with the smallest hesitation he pulls the door open. With a tired creak the door reveals a set of stairs that descend into darkness. Stepping inside, Sam flicks on a light switch. Electricity hums as the distinctive chime of cheap lights struggle to come to life.

 

Their boots clang against the rusted metal stairs until they reached the bottom floor. Silver panels with sleek handles spot the walls. A metal table stands in the middle of the room, catching Dean’s reflection as he steps up to the closest panel.

 

“It’s a morgue.” Sum utters, eyes scanning the wintry barren room. Dean peeks over his shoulder, throwing his brother an irritable glare, “You think?”

 

Sam shrugs, palms upturned in a placating gesture. “So are you going to open that or what? One of these has got to have what we’re looking for…I hope.”

 

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Dean eyeballs the handle, heart thudding in his chest, with each beat jarring him into a state of fitful alertness. Shaking his head Dean grabs the handle and pulls it down and with a click, the silver door swings open. As soon as the door opens the smell of copper, like pennies held against skin for too long, washes over them. Grimacing, Dean yanks onto the tray holding the body and pulls it into the light.

 

“What the-?” Dean exclaims, eyes widening, as he stares down into the pale face of the corpse. “Oh my god” Sam breathes.

 

The body is a replica of Dean’s, yet this one has wings, so broad that the feathers spill over the sides, some of which are crushed and bent at odd angles from being stuffed into the small space. The feathers might once have been a luminescent gold if it weren’t for the blood that has stained them, some of which still runs from the macabre hole in the body’s chest. Clenching his jaw tightly together Sam lays a hand against the dead angel’s cheek, “He…it’s still warm.” He corrects himself breath coming in increasingly harried bursts. Dean runs a hand over the stubble on his chin as he stares down at the dead doppelganger, eyes flat as he stares down at it.

 

Dean is right there next to him, yet scenes of the day he lost his brother are burning into his retinas. The lurid crimson blood that has baptised the cadaver’s chest is all too reminiscent of the deep gouges laid on Dean by the hellhounds. The full lips are blue just like they were on that day when he couldn’t let go of Dean’s body, where he had held on ‘till Dean was cold against him, and the congealed blood had joined him to his brother in a sickly union.

 

Sam sucks in a breath, attention still fixed on the angel as he draws a hand from the tray to grip his bicep. Fingers tighten, nails cut into his skin, just to remind himself that this place is just playing another trick, because even now he can just about hear Dean’s muted intakes of breath, and it might be Sam’s imagination but in the deathly chill of the room he can feel Dean’s body heat washing over him.

 

Wordlessly Dean steps in front of Sam, forcing the younger brother to retreat a step and in one smooth motion Dean slides the tray back into the wall. The creature’s wings still protrude from the dark recess, golden feathers pooling out of it, yet that doesn’t stop Dean from viciously slamming the door closed, creating a series of crunches as the feathers are crushed in the hinges.

 

“That’s not what we’re looking for Sammy, there’s no point in gawking.” 

 

Dean stalks over to another drawer, seemingly picking at random. Muscles taut and jaw squared, Dean reaches out and opens the small door in front of him and pulls the tray out from the wall.

 

On it lays Castiel. Not the angel Castiel, Dean sees that immediately. No, this is the Castiel that fell for humanity in 2014. That got so lost and was so betrayed by his future self that hedonism was the only escape; mind altering drugs, deadening alcohol and enough sex to make him forget about the absolute hopelessness and desolation that coated the world.

 

“That’s not Castiel…is it?” Sam queries, brows drawing together in confusion. Dean shakes his head, glancing at Sam’s face, etched with weariness, “No this ain’t Cas. The angels mojo-ed me into some alternate future, and this is what Cas looked like there. He was human…nothing was good.”

 

The Hunter in Dean flares up before he lets his emotions get the better of him. He looks over Castiel’s body, searching for the cause of death. His fingers trail over Castiel’s neck, knowing he won’t find a fluttering pulse. But something clings to his fingers when they track over Castiel’s skin, picking up something tacky and congealed like molasses. Sam’s lips tighten into a line as he puts a hand on each side of Castiel’s head and lifts it off the tray. At the base of Castiel’s neck there’s a dark welt, a hole that has been clotted with blood. 

 

Castiel was dead all over again. Lifeless eyes stared up at Dean, vacant and unseeing, two mirrors that reflected a smaller version of his stunned expression. The lips were parted and blood dotted his lips as he had struggled to breathe through the blood flooding his airways.

 

Dean’s hand finds Castiel’s, and although the hands were beginning to stiffen Dean still manages to interlace their fingers. His thumb rubs small figures over the back of Castiel’s hand, as though he were trying to warm the stagnant blood beneath the pale skin.

 

Sam steps over and carefully trails his fingers over Castiel’s eyes, closing them; granting him his final privacy.

 

“I left him to die the first time you know, in Chuck’s house,” Dean begins, throat clicking as he swallows, “It was the end of the world. I couldn’t stay, Cas saw the bigger picture and so did I. I could forgive myself for not being there.” Dean breathes in the sharp tang of disinfectant, “The second time I was there though, in Stull Cemetery in Lawrence.

 

“Each and every time Cas has been wiped out, it’s because I asked him to. Because when he died last time, when the Leviathan’s took over his body, I had begged Cas to let all the souls go. And he did, eventually…” There’s a bitter smirk as Dean stares down at Castiel’s body, “The stubborn son of a bitch.”

 

Dean’s eyes were dry but Sam knew his brother didn’t have to be weeping to be feeling the deep-seated remorse that he saddled himself with.

 

“Dean, maybe it’s not in here. Maybe we missed something.” Sam wants to get out of here, take Dean away so that he doesn’t look quite so lost. Because Dean’s all he has left, and nothing is worth losing him.

 

“Come on” Sam announces fingers wrapped tight around Dean’s arm. “We’ll find our way back to Gabriel, we’re not meant to be here.”

 

Dean says nothing, he merely lets himself be pulled away, shoes scuffing the tiled floor and the toes of his boot catch each creaking step ascending from the morgue.

 

Sam squints up the stairs, throat tight as there’s a dark outline of a figure waiting at the top. There’s the outline of wings, feathers bristling like spikes ready to capture and skewer. Blue eyes blaze, will-o’-the-wisps that warn Sam from stealing his brother away from the morgue.

 

“Sam” the outline intones, “Take Dean back.”

 

Dean’s head doesn’t move to register the sound; his eyes are downcast, staring at the honeycomb pattern in the next metal step. “Dean?” Sam inquires; he pries his fingers loose and ducks his head, angling for a glimpse of Dean’s expression. There’s nothing there, Dean’s not blinking or breathing, he’s just a statue stuck between the morgue and the shadow blocking the way out.

 

Sam doesn’t want to move from Dean’s side, to leave the halo of warmth that he finds next to Dean. Steeling himself Sam stalks up the rest of the stairs, blood thrumming with adrenaline as the shadow reveals itself as Castiel.

 

The angel’s expression is one out of Revelations; all fury and holy wrath. The outline of his wings are still there, fanned out like a bird of prey defending its kill.

 

“We can’t help you Cas, if you don’t help us.”

 

The lights flicker, and Sam hears the echo of a neon tube further down the corridor explode with a pop. “I’m doing my best Sam, I have always done my best to help you both. You only see a thin veneer of this place and I do not begrudge this of you.”

 

Castiel is suddenly inches closer, though the angel never seemed to move, and his long fingers are curling in the collar of Sam’s red shirt. Sam’s heel slips off the step, yet Castiel holds Sam in place with one hand, with the implied threat of letting the Hunter fall backwards down the twisted metal stairs. “But do not assume things of this place or of me Sam Winchester” the angel growls, “I am not immortal or infallible here, my control is slipping….”

 

Sam squares his jaw and attempts to wrench the angel’s fingers free, “That’s what got us into this whole mess, you trying to help us.”

 

All anger and angelic fury is robbed from Castiel’s bones, his shoulders sink and his fingers slowly uncurl, allowing Sam to regain his footing. “The item will be in the next drawer you try Sam. I’ll hold on a little longer, I’m still doing my best.”

 

Sam shakes his head, nostrils flaring to suck in breath in an attempt to stop his hands from shaking, betraying his anger and fear. As Sam takes the first step back down into the morgue he hears the tell-tale flutter of feathers, maybe the next item will be a white feather, it’s all Sam can think, _coward_.Because as soon as Castiel leaves, Dean stirs back into motion.

 

Dean looks around himself, brows quirked with confusion, “I feel as if I just missed something.”

 

Sam snorts as he meets Dean on the stairs, “Cas just paid us a visit but I don’t think he had the courage to face you.”

 

Dean opens his mouth to retort, but Sam’s expression is thunderous, face pinched with anger, “Dean, if what Gabriel says is right this whole place is Castiel’s sand box. If that’s the case, which it seems to be, then why did he show you those corpses? It’s not right, this is some game he’s playing.”

 

To Sam’s surprise Dean’s eyes crinkle with sympathy, he averts his gaze, deigning to look at the grey walls. “Yeah well, he didn’t exactly go out with his marbles intact. He’s still reeling from that Sammy, I’m sure he’s trying to hold on as long as he can.”

 

The resonance of the words takes Sam aback, the tense lines furrowing his brow smooth, “Let’s find the next item.”

 

There’s a flicker of fear that washes over Dean’s face but like everything else in Dean’s life he quickly sweeps it away under a megawatt smile, so bright that even the dark spots are hard to see.

 

Most people don’t see that in Dean, but Sam sees all the doubts and fear. “Don’t worry,” Sam begins, “Cas told me that the next drawer we pull out is going to be the right one.”

 

A fond genuine little smile gently moulds Dean’s lips, ridding him of the fake star spangled grin, “I knew our little angel would pull through.”

 

Sam merely rolls his eyes and sighs with exasperation. As he walks back down into the morgue the place suddenly seems brighter and friendlier, at least as friendly as a morgue can be. Dean seems to pick up on it as his body movements are more fluid and natural, not the aborted stretches and jerks that had coloured his behaviour when he had been pulling open the drawers in a game of Russian Roulette.

 

Dean strides up to the first drawer on the left and without so much as a tremble of trepidation, presses down on the handle and lets the small silver door swing open. The drawer is pulled out, revealing the next item.

 

It’s so small that Dean almost doesn’t see it at first, but when his gaze lands on it he feels his heart pick up, speeding and making him sweat. It’s cool and familiar in his palm when he picks it up, the brass shape still has all the old nicks and cuts from close misses and scrapes.

 

The horned amulet on the thin black chord is a painful reminder.

 

Castiel appears next to Dean with a quiet shift of air. Dean pivots in his heel, staring at his profile. The angel is frowning slightly, just a subtle twist to his lips. Sam doesn’t meet Castiel’s gaze as the angel looks over to him, there’s a knot in Sam’s gut as his brown eyes digest every modicum of detail on the bland tiles covering the floor.

 

Dean feels the tension in the air, yet the itching of his fingers to hang the amulet around his neck distracts him. The face of the long forgotten protection deity that stares back at him is an awkward reunion; a steadfast friend that had always been there for him and when Dean couldn’t see the way out he turned his back on the faithful object. “Why do you want this Cas? I mean, it can’t exactly have any good memories for you.” Dean asks, watching Castiel’s cerulean eyes for an answer.

 

Castiel drags in a deep breath, as though parroting human convention before he speaks, “It’s not all bad.” Castiel starts, as he looks to Dean, fingers hovering just above the amulet.

 

Sam is transfixed, half expecting Dean to jerk the amulet back, to hide it in the press of his warm palm. Nothing is said but meaning is flying between the angel and Dean. As Sam watches he begins to understand.

 

Dean’s eyes run themselves over the amulet and then flick back to Castiel.

 

_I didn’t look after it. You better had._

There’s a ghost of defiance and determination as Castiel straightens the curve of his spine and plucks the amulet from Dean’s palm. “You’re right Dean, there aren’t a lot of good memories that I associate with this charm. However…” Castiel pauses, tasting the words before he commits them to the air, “I lost my faith in my Father but soon after I found out that Humanity has so much more to offer.”

 

Castiel tilts his chin up slightly and gazes at Dean.

 

And in that moment something clicks in Sam.

 

There’s a creak as an old mahogany door opens behind Dean. The Hunter doesn’t jump; he merely turns to face it.

 

“Sam” Castiel begins, “You were right.” The angel breathes, “This next realm will be the last safe place for you both. After this it will get much worse.”

 

There’s a tinny ring to Castiel’s last words, evidence of the angel trying to hold something back that’s pushing at every pore to escape.

 

The door swings open further and a soft gold light wraps itself around the brothers, spiriting them into the next realm.

 

Castiel can feel a wan smile stretching across his tired lips. The muscles in his face ache with the strange sensation but he doesn’t stop the smile despite the burn, because he knows that each and everyone is precious. With the cool weight of the amulet in one hand Castiel bends down and gently picks up the golden feather that was left in the morgue. Inside the wall he can sense the angelic version of Dean, lifeless and cold. But this little feather, clean of blood and so soft, violence could never have kissed it, it is the perfect memento of his fallen figment of his imagination.

 

Castiel’s fingers curl open, palm raised upward so that the bronze amulet glints under the harsh drone of the lights. Carefully, Castiel places the feather next to it, tenderly pushing the golden feather towards the amulet. Castiel’s eyes flutter closed and a sigh escapes him as he secrets the feather and amulet away in his dirtied trench coat pocket.

 

In the corner of his eye there’s a dark shadow, gone when he turns to look at it. But that flash of white, the grin of teeth, bore with the promise of violence, is familiar. The Leviathan is closing in, even now its oozing supine tentacles are curling around his mind; poisoning the angel.

 

There’s time for one last visit to Dean. He’d died once and never gave tongue to his thoughts and feelings…but this time will be different.

 

**_Numbers_ **

 

 

The smell of old books that peculiar musk and the warm spice of freshly rubbed wood polish. These things mean nothing to Dean, no fond memories spring to mind.

But Sam keeps his eyes closed and simply soaks in the scents before opening his eyes to the most glorious of visions.

 

A room that would put the library of Alexandria to shame stretches out before them. Rows upon rows of books are stacked neatly on rich mahogany shelves that zigzag out as far as the eye can see. Like Anna’s realm of white expanse, this is a similar space as there are no walls to encase or bottle the wealth of tomes.

 

Dean sighs and rubs the back of his neck, still running over Castiel’s last words. How could things get worse? And how was this a good place?

 

“This place is a fucking maze. How are we going to get out of this one?”

 

Sam hums non-committally as he steps over to the shelf to his left, fingers trailing over the smooth covers of the books.

 

“Hey, Sam, stop feeling up the books would ya?”

 

With a great sigh, Sam tears himself away, but his mind still wonders about what each book holds. Whomever this realm belongs to, Sam can certainly relate to them. “Who’s realm do you think this is?”

 

Dean’s gaze skims over the books disparagingly; it’s not that he doesn’t like learning, that’s certainly not the case. A Hunter needs knowledge just as much as a gun, a knife or a bag of salt. No, this place reeks of opulence, of having too much time to sit and think, to be sedentary. Just the thought makes Dean’s leg quiver with the urge to sprint.

 

“Well, Cas did kill a lot of Raphael’s followers right? Could be an angel we’ve never met.”’

 

The words cloy the air, voicing past sins and leaving an uncomfortable silence, in their wake. The seconds seem to drag on; waiting for the bomb to drop. But nothing comes and Dean lets out a sigh of air that rattles in his throat.

 

“The sooner we’re out of here the better, let’s split up.”

 

Sam shoots Dean an incredulous look, “We have no idea how big this place is, I’m not sure it’s the best idea for us to go off on our own.”

 

Snorting, Dean waves a hand over his shoulder, “Don’t be such a girl Sammy. We always find each other don’t we?” And with that Dean disappears around the corner of a bookcase, leaving his brother standing alone in the aisles.

 

 

℘

 

 

“Castiel”, the Leviathan begins, sauntering towards the angel, “Have you come to give in?”

 

Castiel looks around him, at the pools of black tar with ghoulish ruby bubbles oozing to the surface, at the dead trees that cut the black sky with their alabaster branches and at the low hanging amaranthine sky. And with his shoulders slumped and hands hanging loose at his sides Castiel looks up at the grinning abomination that he’s soon to fully become. “Yes.”

 

The Leviathan’s smile splits even wider, like a wolf baring its fangs as it dives in for the mortal strike.

 

“Under one condition.”

 

The Leviathan’s head cocks to the side, it’s smile cracking for a brief moment, “And what, my dear, would that be?”

 

Squaring his shoulders Castiel steps up to the Leviathan, staring into the swirling azure depths of his counterpart. “Give me one last opportunity to see Dean, no interferences from you.”

 

The Leviathan strokes a delicate finger across Castiel’s cheekbone, smearing onyx liquid in a thick line like war paint. “Castiel that is quite the request. But I suppose it doesn’t even matter any more, you’re already broken. So I will give you this final boon.”

 

Castiel gives a stiff nod and begins to turn away, desperate not to let this monstrosity see any further weakness. Yet the Leviathan is there when he turns, crowded in close. “Little bird” it starts piteously, “Is there something pricking at your eyes?”

 

The angel stares through the moisture warping his sight, tongue forming the words of a retort but is stopped short when the Leviathan cups his hands over Castiel’s cheeks, thumbs tucked under his eyelids to wipe away the salt water.

 

“Hush, hush little one. Now that you have given into me, all this pain…that hollow feeling in your heart…it’ll all go. Let me be your drug, let me tuck you away.”

 

Castiel closes his eyes.

 

 

℘

 

 

Time doesn’t seem to move in this place. There’s no change in the light and even Dean’s internal body clock doesn’t seem to register anything, not fatigue in his muscles nor thirst in his throat. Instead, Dean finds a strange sense of calm amongst the books, though he would never admit that to his nerd brother. Glancing up at the silver plaque that marks each bookshelf he reads the words _Salvation_. The books down this aisle look particularly old, with white creases on the leather jackets; betraying heavy use and when he picks up a particularly large tome there are dark stains on the front.

 

Flicking open the cover, his eyes scan down the page, certain words jumping out at him, _damned, hounds, torture_ …The title of the book is printed in stark black letters at the top of each yellowed page: _Salvation for the Damned_.  The book seems heavier than before, the stains more ominous, yet those warnings do nothing to deter him from reading the first few lines.

_Damnation has coexisted with time itself. Our Lord Father saw fit to damn those mortals that did not walk his path. They would be cast out of Earth and shunned from Heaven’s Gate, never to gaze upon its golden splendour. Instead these sinners would endure an eternity of pain._

_This has been the order of things and shall always be. For a sinner to escape this fate is the highest of perversions._

Dean tries to lick the salt from his lips, yet finds that his tongue has no moisture to wet the skin. The words are an accusation. Those that have escaped Hell are a perversion, are unnatural.

 

“Dean.” A gravel rough voice intones.

 

Dean turns with the book still open in his hands to face Castiel. Shadows play against the warm light of the library, creating the illusion of expansive murky wings.

 

Smirking, Dean looks down at the book then meets Castiel’s penetrating blue gaze, “Did you know that I was a perversion Cas?” That smirk remains, self-deprecating, loathing.

 

Castiel cocks his head to the side, strangely innocent as he tugs the book out of Dean’s hand. “You are the righteous man Dean. You were never meant to go to Hell and you are not a perversion.”

 

A derisive sound escapes him, “Well if that book is correct, your boss says otherwise.”

 

“God is not always right Dean, I have learned that after many millennia. I think you know that too.” Reaching past Dean, the angel slots the book back into place on the shelf, hiding it from view.

 

“Wow Cas, you should be a motivational speaker. That really got to me. Thanks.” Each word is lathered with sarcasm and to top it off Dean rolls his eyes and begins to walk away, down the aisle of books marked _Salvation_.

Castiel strides after Dean, grabbing the human by the shoulder and spinning him around to face the angel’s thunderous eyes. “When has it ever mattered to you, Dean Winchester, what God has thought or planned? You defied your role in the Apocalypse and even now you venture into a place that was never meant for human eyes. Stop being so damn self-pitying.”

 

Dean is wide eyed and simply stares at Castiel with his mouth agape and tongue devoid of his usual snappy rebuttal.

 

And then something completely unexpected happens, something that is beyond Castiel’s most fanciful of predictions.

 

 

℘

 

 

It doesn’t take long before Sam has wandered off, through the maze of paperbacks and hardbacks. It’s so quiet that even his footsteps never make a sound on the glossy floorboards. It’s the perfect library, right down to the smells.

 

Sam’s eyes scrutinize the labels on each row of books. He passes _Sea Mammal Biology_ , _15 th Century Exorcisms _and finally, the sporadic order of the books takes him to a row labelled _North American Law_.

 

Memories of Stanford flash before Sam. Of waking at 7:00AM for morning lectures, of staying up late to cram for a final, of drinking too much with friends at raucous parties. But the best memory, the memory that hurts the most is the one of a girl with soft yellow hair and electrifying green eyes, with a smile so achingly beautiful that only Dean’s could ever rival it.

 

A finger traces the cool metal plaque, following the grooves of the etched letters. Sam’s shoulders droop and he lets out the long sigh of a man who can’t see the end, where the road is a dichotomy of freedom and a never-ending trap. He’ll never stop Hunting for as long as he breathes, but neither is he tied down to anywhere or anything besides Dean.

 

Sam’s hand trails away from the plaque as he walks down the row of books. This was his life for a time. Libraries and books. How strange and how easily this life was ripped away from him. Picking out a book at random Sam scans down the page, some of the words ring with familiarity, but others are lost on him; have no meaning. With a frown Sam reaches out to return the book, but through the gap where the book used to reside he sees a flash of blonde hair on the other side of the shelf.

 

Blood drains from his face, stomach tight as the book falls from his hand and he races the figure to the end of the bookcase. “Jess?!”

 

As Sam reaches the end of the row no blonde haired girl with the bewitching smile is standing there and now the quietude is ringing television static. Running a hand through his hair he bites down on the inside of his lip, just another cruel trick. Turning away from the law section Sam’s foot hits something metal on the floor, making it skitter across the wood.

 

It’s immediately apparent that this is what they were sent to look for, but this object is one he fully understands; one that conjures its own sweet memories and makes Sam eke out a smile.

 

_CNK 80Q3_

 

 

℘

 

 

Dean’s lips are suddenly on Castiel’s, pliant flesh pressed flush against his own chapped lips. It’s pure, just a taste.

 

A stunned pause follows, where they breathe each other’s air and their lips are nearly brushing for neither knows whether to pull away.

There’s a sudden flurry of motion, Dean pressing his mouth against Castiel’s again and one hand slamming against the bookcase to entrap the angel against him. His fingers are threading through Castiel thick brunette hair, tangling and knotting the strands.

 

Hips grind against one another, delicious friction that has Dean breaking from the kiss to sigh and shiver and run his hips in long arches over Castiel’s clothed groin. The angel growls slightly and there’s a flush dusting his cheeks as he looks up under thick lashes, with wet lips glistening with saliva.

 

Dean ducks down again, licking the seam of Castiel’s mouth and then biting down, _hard_ , rupturing blood vessels and burning colour into the skin.

 

There’s nothing gentle or hesitant about the grind. It’s possession, need and connection, nothing like the first hesitant brush of lips.

 

Winding an arm around Dean’s back, Castiel tugs him closer, rib cages pressed together so that with every breath expelled and drawn by the human it presses them tighter together for a fraction of a second. Castiel smirks, his own chest still, lungs without need for oxygen.

 

That little smirk sends a jolt of heat, right down into the roiling kettle of warmth burning in Dean’s belly. He feels as if he’s not been touched like this in years, his body is hyper-sensitive.

 

Yet even those primal needs and instincts are second to the jack-hammer of his heart. He could have sworn that Castiel could hear it.

 

Dean flushes slightly at the thought, what was he, a high school girl about to lose her virginity? He lived by a code, no chick flick moments, and he was going to continue to live by it.

 

But the universe conspires against him as Castiel uses Dean’s internal monologue to switch positions, using his strength to fling Dean against the wooden shelves and twist himself around so that he was trapping him in.

 

The Hunter’s eyes are wide, lips parted slightly with the surprise of finding their position reversed, yet it only lasts a moment as Dean quirks a brow and a canine worries his kiss-swollen lower lip.

 

Castiel’s hand wanders under the thin cotton of Dean’s shirt, short nails rasping over the lines of his muscles and the curve of his hips. His hand dips further, whilst the other hand is pressed against his chest. Dean moans as he feels Castiel’s fingers slip under the elasticised band of his underwear, fingers wrapping around his hard cock. “Cas” Dean breathes, pushing against Castiel’s hand that is pressed against his chest. It takes absolutely no effort from the angel to keep the Hunter in place. It’s hard to breath with the hand pressed so firmly against him but Dean still manages a single desperate and voracious word, “Please.”

 

Castiel takes the aborted breath, shaped into a word, as his cue. With firm, long motions he strokes Dean in his underwear. Closing his eyes Castiel lets his head drop against Dean’s neck, teeth nibbling and biting at Dean’s racing pulse. He tastes salt and cheap soap and something else entirely Dean; a mix between the crisp metallic aroma of rain and a natural earthiness one breathes in when burning old wood.

 

Dean’s head is thrown back against the bookshelf and as he tosses his head to the side, several books slide off and fall to the floor with a clatter. He can’t open his eyes; it’s the only thing that is slowing his inevitable release. All he can manage is to concentrate on Castiel’s smooth palm brushing over the engorged vein on the underside of his dick. He can hear his own breath in his ears, haggard and raspy, and underpinning it is the lewd sound of flesh gliding over flesh. He can’t look at Castiel; he can’t break this euphoric spell. So much for no chick flick moments.

 

“Dean, look at me,” The angel demands, voice leaving no rebuke. Compelled, Dean’s eyelids slowly pry themselves apart, the warm darkness parting for the golden light of the library. Scintillating blue is all he can see at first, pupils blown to shining black pearls and the yellow light like an aureole frames Castiel’s head. But then as Dean looks down he catches a glimpse of Castiel’s parted lips, still reddened from his teeth and wet from his tongue.

And that’s when Dean let’s go, with a grunt he comes in Castiel’s hand, the angel’s fingers slow down and pull at the head of his cock, making the orgasm last; allowing Dean to savour every last moment of the dizzying heat. Castiel’s hand falls out from under his shirt, allowing Dean to finally breath in a gasp of air in an attempt to clear the bright spots from his vision. The hand in Dean’s underwear lingers, fingers slowly drawing away from the softening flesh. Dean grimaces at the wet stickiness yet Castiel merely smiles; a sinful, smug little pull at his lips, and the wet sensation is gone.

 

Heart slowing, Dean stares at Castiel as he begins to gather his senses once more.

 

Castiel, his friend and ally, just gave him the best hand job he’s ever had.

 

The angel cocks his head to the side, reading Dean’s thoughts, “I had to rebuild your body Dean, I know your flesh better than you do.”

 

Dean doesn’t blush; it’s merely a rush of heat to his cheeks thanks to the after-effects of his orgasm. “Yeah, thanks, I guess.” He murmurs, hand brushing the back of his neck.

 

“Dean! I think I’ve got the next item.”

 

Dean’s eyes are two round pools of green as he pushes past Castiel, out of the cocoon of the angel’s arms. “Y-yeah, Sam, I’m over here. Cas is with me.” Dean clears his throat, hoping that Sam didn’t hear the crack in his voice.

 

Castiel’s hand shoots out, wrapping itself around Dean’s bicep, “I can’t let this opportunity pass Dean.”  Castiel takes a deep breath but Dean can feel the quiver coursing through the grip on his arm. “I feel a strong emotional and sexual attraction to you.”

 

There’s a slight pop as Dean’s mouth falls open, his head feels buoyant, at risk of drifting away. “Ugh Cas…”

 

At that moment, Sam rounds the corner and he interprets the scene precisely, “I can come back if you guys want?”

 

Shaking his head, Dean banishes the cotton from his mind, “No Sammy it’s fine. What’ve you got?’

 

Sam smirks and lifts the thin plate of metal for Dean and Castiel’s inspection, “The Impala’s number plate.” Sam announces as he hands it over to Dean. Somehow it doesn’t feel right that Dean can’t handle it and feel the rusted edges before giving it over to Cas, even if it’s only this world’s copy.

 

“Baby…” Dean murmurs as his fingertips travel over the black roads made by the imprinted letters and numbers, “This isn’t off _baby_ is it?”

 

Castiel shakes his head, “No Dean, I would never damage something you love.”

 

Dean’s gaze shoots over to Castiel’s before he quickly averts his eyes again to look at the number plate. “Well I gotta say Cas, you’ve got good taste if the Impala counts as a good memory for you.” Handing over the number plate, Castiel carefully pulls it free from Dean’s lingering grip. Yet Castiel doesn’t pull the number plate free, instead he lets it act as a bridge between the two of them.

 

“Ugh, well, I…I think I saw a few good books over there…so, I’ll just be a minute.”

 

Dean nods numbly at Sam’s fumbled attempt at giving the two one last moment together and he chooses to ignore the pleased little smile Sam is wearing.

 

As soon as Sam is gone Castiel tugs the number plate free and slots his lips against Dean’s, tongue pushing through his lips. Castiel’s tongue licks over the roof of Dean’s mouth, before letting his tongue run over Dean’s own. The kiss seems to last for an age and when Castiel pulls away to allow Dean to gulp in deep lungfuls of oxygen, he flushes with pleasure.

 

This time Dean leans forward and kisses Castiel, fingers trailing over his shoulders. This kiss is softer and tastes like a farewell.

 

Castiel holds the dented number plate in his fingers, the thin metal loosely gripped by the ends of his fingertips.

 

“Goodbye Dean.”

 

The words are said with a smile and Castiel exhales in one large huff, he’s been holding his breath for a very long time. But now he can breathe, now he can let go.

 

With his free hand Castiel holds the back of Dean’s neck, the angel’s smooth perfect skin slides over the raised ridges of scar tissue that peppers Dean’s skin. “I’m sorry that it took me so long to find my courage.”

 

Dean tilts his head slightly, forehead creased.

“You don’t have to keep saying sorry Cas. Just come back with me- us. Help us with the Leviathans.”

 

That smile never wavers and it sends a chill down Dean’s spine. It’s the smile of someone about to _jump_.

 

Castiel lays his forehead against Dean’s and he holds his breath again. “Please kill me. Put me out of my misery.”

 

Dean feels something cold slip into his hand and when he looks down to see what it is; he hears the flutter of Castiel’s wings as he slips out of the realm.

 

In his hand he’s holding an angel blade. It’s funny, but he knows this isn’t Castiel’s blade, the one he gave back to him in Uriel’s jungle. He knows Cas’ blade like his favourite gun.

 

The blade he holds now is slightly warmer to the touch, and is shorter and weighty in the grip.

 

Not only that it seems, _slippery_ like the weapon has a mind of its own and wants to wriggle out of his grasp and betray him in a fight.

 

Dean frowns, looking into the space where Castiel once stood. His lips are still tingling with the phantom of the kiss they shared. Dean’s fingertips trace the skin on his lips and his heart lurches.

 

Walking down the aisle of books, he ignores the gilded letters on the spines. “C’mon Sammy, we’re springing this joint.”

 

Sam meets him in the central aisle, a knowing smirk painted on his face. “Not a word Sam.” Dean deadpans. Sam merely nods, sensing the change, and falls into step next to Dean, “So did Cas say how we’re getting out of here?”

 

As soon as Sam has finished speaking water begins to pour out from the vents in the walls. Dean sighs and looks up at the ceiling, “Really Cas?” In a matter of moments the water is deep enough to swim in but it’s strangely warm and salty. The water keeps rising, books are floating like miniature armadas and Dean and Sam hold their breath as a fresh wave of water comes hurdling down the aisle.

 

**_Glass_ **

Sand.

 

In every place that someone doesn’t want to get sand, that’s where Dean has it.

 

In his boots, down his jeans, in his mouth up his nostrils.

 

The Hunter drags himself out of the crystal blue waters; snorting and spitting like a deranged bronco. For a moment Dean sits on the sand, seawater lapping at his legs and stares at the horizon. Cupping his hands over his eyes Dean shields his vision from the dazzling sparks dancing on the water, where he sees a dark shape bobbing on the waves. It doesn’t quite click, the image is just too weird until Sam, sopping wet and parting his mane of hair away from his eyes declares; “Is that a pirate ship?”

 

Snapping in the breeze at the ship’s mast is a jolly roger grinning at Sam and Dean on the beach. Pushing himself up Dean grunts and shakes his head, scooping up the angel blade from the sand, “What twisted son of a bitch has this kind of set up for his realm?”

 

“Now Dean, don’t be so rude. I rather like it.”

 

Sipping his drink from a fluoresce pink straw Balthazar strolls down the beach towards them, dressed only in tight black Speedos and a pair of sharp edged sunglasses. “You should see the mermaids I installed the other day. I’m particularly fond of the red head.”

 

Dean tucks a hands into his pockets, thumbs poking over the edges of the pockets. “Mermaids? Bras or no bras?”

 

Dragging himself to his feet Sam rolls his eyes and pulls the sodden jacket from his shoulders, “We’re not going to stay to gawk at mermaids Dean, the sooner we get the next object the better. Castiel needs our help.” Peering at Balthazar, Sam sends the angel a pout, “You wouldn’t happen to know where or what the next object is do you?”

 

Balthazar takes a sharp inhale between his teeth in a hiss, stepping away from the Winchesters as he does. “Please remind me about what happened the last time I helped you apes? Oh, yes, that’s right, the brother I was most fond of stabbed me in the back…literally.” Pausing, Balthazar takes another loud sip from his drink, “No, boys I won’t be helping you because if I do what’s left of Cassy won’t take kindly to it.”

 

“Balthazar, come on. We’re trying to help him.” Dean pleads words sharp and slightly whiny, the need for aid and pride warring in his tone.

 

Yet Balthazar ignores Dean’s words entirely and is instead focused entirely on the waters behind them. “It’s too late anyway boys.”

 

With that the coconut shell falls to the sand, spilling the drink inside. As Balthazar disappears a gust of wind picks up, rustling the verdant green fronds of the palm trees cresting the island. Turning, Sam and Dean face the waters and the approaching steely clouds, their bellies full with the promise of a storm.

 

Waves swell, white horses riding the lips and rocking the wooden pirate ship, making it sway precariously from side to side. Sam hugs his arms around himself, the harsh tropical sun blanketed by the thick miasma flowing off the sea. Dean can only stare and feel the growing static in the air and the uneasiness simmering in his gut. Castiel’s good-bye repeated itself like a warning in his mind.

 

Screams. Blood curdling howls of agony and cries of fear pierce the air like gunshots. Amongst the waves they spy figures swimming toward shore. Not all of the swimmers make it; some disappear underneath the crush of a wave or are pulled under the water.

 

“The mermaids are being killed by something.”

 

As soon as Sam utters the words the swimmers make sense and when Dean looks close enough he can see green fins breaking the surface, propelling the scantily clad women closer to the safety of the beach.

 

A blonde mermaid is the closest to shore, her aquamarine tail smacks against the waves and she’s close enough now that Dean can see her eyes, wide with fear and red from tears. Sam takes a step toward the water, brine kissing the toes of his shoes as though to reach for the young woman, and hope crests over her cherry red lips.

 

In the next moment huge black jaws emerge from the sea, thin white teeth like prison bars capture the mermaid and in the next moment the teeth bring themselves together with a snap and the mermaid is swallowed whole.

 

Lightning forks across the sky; the rain falls in weighty drops.

The rest of the creature appears from the depths. Like the sea monsters from legends its scaly black hide is topped with vicious spikes and undulates in and out of the water as it moves from victim to victim, crunching bones and devouring them in merciless mouthfuls. The head emerges and two azure eyes fall on Dean. The reptilian creature bares its teeth at the Hunters, nostrils snorting great plumes of mist. The sea monster dives again and for a few minutes goes unseen.

 

“We gotta get moving Sammy.”

 

Sam rips his gaze away from the dark waters, blinking away the rain, “Dean, are we going to leave them..?”

 

Dean growls low in his throat, “What exactly _can_ we do?”

 

In answer to Dean’s question the monster surfaces again, but this time it rises not with screams but with deep groans. The ship is sinking, the wood splitting and snapping as the creature wraps its snake-like form around the boat. Masts tip and fall, the sails flutter away, lost kites in the storm.

 

Sam and Dean share a look and as one they fall into a sprint side by side, running through the wet sand. Rainwater sluices off them as they scour the beach, looking for anything that might be their ticket out of there. Dean’s fingers are curled tight around the blade’s handle but keeping it with him gnaws a hole in his belly.

 

White shells, green coconuts, discarded glasses and cocktail umbrellas. Nothing.

 

They’re panting, breathing in the rain they glance over to one another. “We need Balthazar to help us.” Sam pants out, lips pale with the cold.

 

Another crack of thunder and a mermaid drags herself up onto the beach, blood coats the emerald scales of her fin and her flame red hair is a tattered mess that frames her pale face, “Sam, Dean help-“

 

With a gurgle her plea is cut short, a foot rests on her neck, crushing her windpipe with a snap.

 

The man watches the life leave the woman’s eyes before lifting his gaze.

 

It’s that same electrifying gaze that rivets itself on Dean’s face. “I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you again Dean.”

 

In a draught of air the Leviathan is standing in front of Dean, face leaning in close to his neck, taking in the human’s scent. He keeps still, watching the monster posing as his friend assess him, the eyes stripping him bare. Suddenly there are fingers latched tight on his chin, the pressure bruising.

 

“Is this what gets my little bird all hot and bothered?”

 

The Leviathan snorts, fingers tight as he angles Dean’s face from side to side. With his other hand the Leviathan threads his fingers through Dean’s soft hair, fingernails cutting into the Hunter’s scalp as he holds him in place, fixed like a specimen.

 

“Dean!”

 

The Leviathan pauses, eyes flicking to the side momentarily. “Your brother seems worried about you. But there’s nothing he can do. Before he can so much as blink I’ll extinguish his soul.” The Leviathan licks its lips and purrs, and nuzzles its head against Dean’s shoulder, fingers trailing away from Dean’s hair and down his neck. “Tell your brother that you’re mine. Tell your brother that you don’t need him.”

 

There’s a tongue pressed to Dean’s pulse, the warmth of the Leviathan’s tongue makes Dean shiver with repulsion and even the rain racing down his skin does nothing to cleanse him of the taint he can feel spreading from the contact. “Say it” the Leviathan hisses.

 

Dean lets out a shaky breath and looks up at the sky, “Sam…” Just another lie. Sam will know. Sam knows him better than that. “Sam, I’m fine.”

 

_You know it’s a lie don’t you? This thing isn’t Cas._

 “I don’t need you here Sam.”

 

_Please come back._

Dean can feel the long fingers of the Leviathan playing at the small of his back, drawing patterns in the wet fabric. Over the Leviathan’s shoulder Dean watches Sam, his hazel eyes widen and his shoulders slump. There’s a sharp nip of teeth at Dean’s earlobe, blood dribbles from the torn flesh. Dean maintains eye contact with Sam, he doesn’t wink nor mouth a silent word but when Sam sets his shoulders and nods, Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

 

_Got it._

 

The Leviathan licks its lips, eyes rolling into the back of its head. The blood is the embodiment of ambrosia on his tongue. And now that he’s had a taste he wants _more_.

 

Twisting his long fingers through Dean’s hair once more, he brings his face up close to Dean’s, so close that Dean can feel the tepid breath misting over the thin skin of his eyelids. The fingers in his hair clench, rooting Dean in place. “Cas is always thinking about your eyes y’know.” The Leviathan intones, as though he’s rattling off a boring line of script, “I don’t see the attraction myself. I much prefer the taste of your blood.” The fingers on Dean’s chin move, and Dean’s skin crawls as he feels them slither toward the crease at the corner of his eyes, “Maybe if I pluck them out, Cas won’t be quite so distracted.”

 

 

℘

 

 

 

The wind chills Sam to the bone but he doesn’t even register it. With every step that takes him further and further away from Dean he wants to turn back, to tug that abomination wearing his friend’s face away from his brother.

 

Gritting his teeth Sam forces himself to keep moving, weathering the tropical storm beating down on his back.

 

Sam walks straight past Balthazar who is now clad in a long black coat that brushes the angel’s ankles.

 

“Come on Sam” Balthazar implores, “You’re not going to find anything on this sandy little pimple without my help.”

 

Pausing, Sam whips around, arms spread mockingly, “Only when it’s convenient huh? Only when your world is falling down around you?”

 

Balthazar’s whole frame seems to deflate, the creases on his forehead deepen, “I didn’t want to be my brother’s enemy again. I thought you might understand that.”

 

“Yeah I do Balthazar, but Dean and I learned the hard way that there’s a greater good that has to be served, even if it means giving up the only things you love.”

 

Thunder rumbles overhead but underneath the staccato Sam thinks he hears the word, “Humans”.

 

With a wave Balthazar gestures for Sam to follow him past the line of palm trees and into the scrawny foliage of the island’s interior jungle. It’s not long before Balthazar stops and looks around, blonde hair plastered to his face as his lips protrude in a pout. Sam lifts a brow as he watches the angel potter around, foot tapping seemingly random patches of ground and opal eyes scanning the rocks and trees.

 

Crossing his arms over his chest Sam clenches his teeth, imagining all the terrible things that might have befallen Dean at this point. Parting his lips Sam draws a breath, ready to face the angel’s annoyance if only to get the asshole to hurry up, when Balthazar excitedly points to the spot to Sam’s left. “That’s where it is.”

 

Sam twists to face the area indicated. All he sees are dead leaves and mud. “What..?”

 

Huffing, Balthazar crosses over to Sam, handing him a spade that blinks into existence, “Dig.”

 

Gripping the handle of the spade Sam merely narrows his eyes as he plunges the blade into the wet earth, not bothering to waste his time by asking Balthazar to help him with the work. No, the angel seems far more content to watch Sam strain with each strike into the ground and grunt with each spadeful of dirt levered out of the growing hole.

 

Sam’s furious pace means that after only five minutes his spade strikes something hard, jarring the Hunter’s wrist. Sam pays the throbbing no heed as he falls to his knees in the hole and starts to part the sodden ground, revealing something wooden and curved. Slotting his hand down the side of the hole, Sam’s probing fingers finds something metal and round attached to the wooden object. With a heave Sam pulls it free, muscles in his shoulders burning at the strain.

 

Balthazar finally decides to step in, as with a wave of his hand the object is out of the hole, ready for Sam to inspect. Glaring up at the angel, Sam drags himself out from the earth and crouches down next to his bounty.

 

Bounty is the right word, because now it’s abundantly clear what the interred object is.

 

“A treasure chest? Are you kidding me?”

 

Balthazar merely shrugs and draws a rusted key from his pocket and with a flick of his wrist throws it to Sam who catches it one handed.

 

Rain spills down the chest, washing away the roots clinging to the wood and polishing the golden brackets and bolts. With a click Sam turns the key in the lock and a moment later the lid of the chest is pushed back, revealing the treasure inside.

 

Sparkling gold coins. Dazzling diamonds. Old world artefacts.

 

Sam knows Castiel well enough that none of these things could possibly interest the angel, unlike the prideful glee in Balthazar’s eyes when he gazes upon the treasure. Plunging his hands down into the chest, gold and jewels flow out either side, hitting the mud with muted clicks and rattles. At the very bottom there’s something smooth and wooden. The timber is humid to the touch, unlike the chill of the coins. Wrapping his fingers around the box Sam yanks it out of the chest.

 

Sam never even glances at the gold littering his feet as he stands with his prize grasped tightly in hand. The box is rectangular and plain with only a small bronze catch and hinges marring the surface. Flicking the catch Sam opens the box and is struck dumb at what he sees. Carefully Sam runs a fingertip over the shards of clear glass lying on a white cloth. “What is this?”

 

Leaning over Sam’s shoulder Balthazar snorts derisively through his flared nostrils, “I believe that they are the remains of the Molotov Cocktail my little brother so artlessly threw at Michael.”

 

The white fabric resting in the box is marred with dark dots from the falling rain and the glass winks in the gloomy atmosphere. With a snap Sam closes the box and darts back through the jungle, leaving Balthazar with a chest full of treasure.

 

 

℘

 

 

The finger is inching closer to Dean’s eye, so close now that he can see the white curve of the nail about to press into the orb’s soft flesh. With a snarl Dean brings up the angel blade, slashing a vicious arc against the creature’s chest. The Leviathan stumbles back a pace, grip loosening on Dean’s hair just enough to allow Dean to sidestep away from the creature.

 

As Dean stands there, facing the thing that was his friend and maybe something more and watches that grotesque grin, the grin of an ape smiling with the promise of violence, he feels anger. White hot and consuming.

 

“Fuck you Cas.” Dean bites out, upper lip curling back.

 

“You don’t dump all that emotional crap on me and then let yourself turn into this… _thing_! I ain’t gonna kill you.” Dean cements those words by lobbing the blade into the sea and with a plop it disappears beneath the swell of a wave.

 

That only makes the thing laugh, laugh until it feels a pang at its side and black oozes from its eyes in a mockery of tears. “Ah Dean” he begins as he wipes at the fluid seeping from the crease of his eye, “I’ll let you in on a little secret…it’s a good one.”

 

And now it’s Castiel standing there. Although there’s been no obvious change the way he’s holding himself is totally different; the tilt of his head is slightly askew like an inquisitive bird, his shoulders are stiff like a soldier and the sapphire of his eyes are endless. “I’ve not gone anywhere.”

 

Castiel smiles but the grin is ephemeral and the Leviathan is back. “I’m just the alcohol Dean, I’m letting all of the inhibitions go. Castiel is here, he’s just content to let me drive because he knows I can get him what he desires.”

 

Dean looks away for a moment, just a subtle twitch of doubt, but the Leviathan sees it and his blood thrums with the little victory. “That’s bullshit.” There’s a confident tilt to Dean’s chin when he raises it and the Leviathan can taste the change. The wind switches direction and the rain lightens to a misty drizzle.

 

Stalking forward Dean stares down into the eyes of the Leviathan.

“I’m not going to believe one twisted word that comes out of your mouth. Fuck you, fuck this hell hole and fuck Cas for giving up.”

 

With that said Dean draws back his fist and launches it at the shocked expression on the Leviathan’s face. Dean braces himself for the inevitable snap of bones, the blinding pain that’s about to erupt in his hand, just like when he punched Cas in the green room all those years ago.

 

It’s over so quick that Dean’s frozen, fist still hanging in the air whilst the Leviathan hisses with pain, hand cradling it’s cheek where a cut has broken the skin, black blood oozing from the rupture.

 

Drawing his hand away from the cut the Leviathan stares at the obsidian ooze staining his palm. The joyful menace that Dean had come to associate with the Leviathan is replaced by a blood-curdling fury. The expression turned upon Dean chills his blood.

 

This thing that had stolen Castiel’s body and soul was going to eat him alive.

 

Dean knows it’s pointless to run, the place is this creature’s playground. He’s learned in Hell that the best way to deal with the knowledge that there was going to be pain, and a lot of it, was to not cower away.

 

The Leviathan stood and crossed the sand, wet grains sticking to his scratched and stained shoes. For a moment it just stood there. Dean could see the thoughts ticking behind the Leviathan’s eyes. It was thinking about where to start first. Even though he knew that this thing wasn’t really Cas, despite the creature’s attempts to convince him otherwise, the beating was going to be that much more painful. Just like when Sam was possessed by Lucifer, seeing someone you care about beat you senseless hurt Dean more than the blows themselves.

 

The first hit was like a sledgehammer colliding into his face. The taste of copper saturates his palette as his teeth cuts through his lip. His cheekbone fractures like brittle toffee and he feels the warmth of a bruise blossoming violet across his skin.

 

Blood trickles hot and sticky over the curve of his lower lip. Dean raised his head somewhat, looking up through the spheres of rainwater that had collected on his lashes. Black veins tracked across the Leviathan’s throat and under the white dress shirt and loosely fastened blue tie. Reaching up Dean gripped the blue tie, forcing the Leviathan to bow his neck down slightly. Intrigued the Leviathan remained still.

 

“Castiel, you have to fight back. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

 

Wrapping his hand around Dean’s wrist the Leviathan purses his lips and with a flourish, twists Dean’s wrist, forcing the Hunter to the ground with a gasp of pain. “You really don’t know when to give up do you? I am Castiel now!”

 

The second hit is a foot to Dean’s ribs. There’s a crack and agony shoots out from the spot.

 

White light spots Dean’s vision but he doesn’t miss the Leviathan coming at him again.

 

“ _Cas_ …”

 

The beating seems to go on for quite a while. If Dean were in Hell he would have estimated that it had been a few hours at least. This was the time where survival meant separating his mind from reality.

 

In Hell he had created a routine, an album of memories he would flick through.

 

He dreamed of the white picket fence offered to him by the Djinn.

 

He thought of Sam’s smile as they drove down the interstate on a bright autumn day.

 

He remembered his mom’s sandwiches with the crusts cut off and his dad teaching him about the Impala’s engine.

 

He recalled Bobby throwing him a worn baseball.

 

He reminisced about reliving fireworks in Heaven.

 

Now though he had new memories he could flick through.

 

Sam gripping him in a tight hug when he got out of Hell.

 

Sam latching onto him when he got his soul back.

 

Castiel smiling on a park bench.

 

Castiel pouring him a drink.

 

Castiel kissing him in a library.

 

Dean stares up into the grey sky from where he lies on his back, watching the tiny droplets of moisture fall towards him. With each breath he feels the burn of a broken rib shifting further out of place. His chest rattles with blood and it catches in his throat, making him want to cough it up. Each slow, methodical beat of his heart is a deafening thump against his eardrums. Every inch of skin feels swollen, bruised and stiff.

 

Something warm is pressed up against his side and something lays itself over his chest. It hurt to move his head but Dean manages to crane his neck long enough to see a trench coat covered arm was twined tight against his chest. “Dean.” It breathes against him. “You’re perfect now. The smell of your blood thick on the air. Complacent next to me. Too tired to utter a word of defiance.”

 

The Leviathan sits up, face hovering above Dean’s with the monochrome sky framing the two lightning spots gazing down at him. “I won’t let you die here Dean. I’m going to keep you with me forever. We can rule this place; carve it into our own little Eden. Now tell me, what’s so bad about that?”

 

Dean’s split lips twitches to answer but not a sound emerges.

 

Tracing a finger over the cuts on Dean’s lips the Leviathan sighs with fondness. “Perfect.”

 

Swallowing, Dean let his head loll to the side, staring down the long line of white sand. “No” Dean croaks, “I’m not gonna stay here. I’m gonna get back to Earth with Sam and Cas…and one day I’m gonna die with them at my side.”

 

It wasn’t rain that slipped over the purpled skin of Dean’s cheek. “That’s all I want.”

 

A menacing growl reverberates from the Leviathan, “Hm, it doesn’t seem I’m done quite yet.” The Leviathan draws himself to his feet and slowly rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. Flexing his shoulders with a pop the Leviathan glares down at Dean’s broken form, “Look - look at me Dean. I want you to be watching.”

 

The corner of Dean’s lips shift as he catches sight of hope running towards him.

 

“Dean!” Sam calls, fear colouring the cry.

 

Sam’s scuffed leather boots stop in front of Dean, he hears Sam talking but the words are muffled as if his brother is speaking from the other side of a door. There’s a shadow of movement and then a gust of air and then Sam is kneeling next to him, paws falling over his body to run over the damage. “Oh my god…”

 

“Sammy…We gotta learn to stop saying that,” Dean croaks. And then it’s just black.

 

 

**_Jade_ **

 

 

There are screams erupting from his bloodied throat. He’s dizzy from the world spinning around him. He can still feel Dean’s blood decorating his knuckles. Worst of all, the metallic taste of Dean’s blood is cloying on his tongue.

 

“How?”

 

It’s strange to be back in control of his body. Numbly he looks down at his fingers, mentally demands them to twitch and it startles him when the appendages obey. They curl into the hard dirt, knees aching from kneeling.

 

The Leviathan is angry; it beats against his skull, desperate to be out again.

 

“How could you do that to Dean…? If you really are a part of me, how could you hurt him like that when I- I…” The word seems too sacred to utter in this abyss but it escapes anyway, he’s too tired, “When I love him?’

 

That seems to make the Leviathan still. Wobbling to his feet Castiel stands and sways, the urge to vomit thick at the back of his throat.

 

He looks up at the sky, the same purple haze and it sets his teeth on edge.

 

“I’m going to be trapped here forever aren’t I?”

 

Nothing answers him, just the sound of silence to fill his ears and add to his headache with its thrum.

 

Doubling over, Castiel heaves, eyelids squeezed tight and belly winding under the bind of his arms. Nothing comes up. Angels, especially dead ones, don’t need to eat.

 

“I deserve this…”

 

Shivering courses through his body but is bled out in an exhale of mist. “I know.”

 

The surface of the black pond to his right is disturbed, ripples pulse from the centre as a tiny creature peeks its head above water. _You’re right Castiel. You do deserve punishment._

Walking over to the edge of the water Castiel looks down into the milky pink eyes of the fish that has appeared. The little creature is not of his making; it’s someone else’s intrusion on his realm. The thought is terrifying. The Leviathan seems to notice and it recoils deep into the recesses of the angel’s mind, hiding itself beneath centuries of forgotten memories.

 

The little pink fish swims in a slow circle, its tail is long and feathered, splayed out like a pale leaf on the inky water.

 

_This isn’t the worst punishment I can give you._

“Who are you?” Castiel inquires, but in the very core of his grace there is a tremble of awe tempered by a cool terror and underneath all of it is the compulsion to love and serve.

 

_Your faith has been abandoned for so long now that I am not surprised you do not recognise me. I am the Father._

Castiel falls to his knees, the mud around the pond soaking through his trousers. The urge to be sick rises again, bile hot and sticky on his tongue. Keeping his head bowed Castiel asks, “Where…where have you been...we have all been so lost without your guidance.”

 

There’s a splash of water as the fish flicks its tail.

 

_You question my methods Castiel, even though I am always right. I created a hierarchy and filled your Grace with the capacity for blind faith. This is because I never intended to stay._

_You were designed to obey your superiors; yet at every turn you defy your Orders._

The urge to look upon his father, even in the form of the albino fish is strong but the fear clenching at his heart is greater, so Castiel can only listen to the thunderous voice being projected from the tiny body and stare at his knees.

 

_Your disobedience and loss of faith is what has garnered you this new punishment I am offering to you. It does not have to come to pass if you do not wish it._

Castiel’s brow furrows,  “I do not understand.”

 

_I am going to give you one last chance for you to get Dean here, to help him rescue you from this place. The alternative method of punishment will be served on Earth._

 

Castiel flicks his gaze up marginally and catches sight of the fish lazily swimming in the congealed black water,  “How would that be a greater punishment? I would surely find some happiness on Earth..?”

_Yes Castiel, there will be good times. You will feel pleasure and love. But all of those feelings and experiences will only enhance the guilt and shame you already feel._

_Every time you look upon Dean you will know you are not worthy of his forgiveness or his love. You will be reminded that you are an abomination, with a festering wound in your mind that can never be healed._

His eyes widen at the prospect, heart palpitating with the truth of the words. Castiel raises his head; no longer is he afraid to face neither his Father nor his punishment. “I accept your offer Father.”

 

The fish stills in the water.

_I can think of no greater punishment. Every moment of bliss will be countered by a greater sense of loathing._

_This is my final gift to you my son._

Then with a spasm the fish stills, little mouth opening with a gasp as it floats belly up in the water.

“Thank you.”

 

 

℘

 

 

The pillow his head is resting on is hard. Really, really hard. Not to mention cold. Slowly, Dean’s eyelids part and the motel ceiling isn’t what he’s used to. Grey cement with twisted copper pipes and a rainbow of electrical wires are suspended above him in a twisted child’s mobile.

 

“Sam.” Dean calls, throat dry, name cracking as it leaves his tongue.

 

“I’m right here Dean. You had me worried for a little while…How are you feeling?”

 

That’s when all the memories come flooding back, along with a new awareness of his body: the dull throbs, the acute aches and the stabbing sensations in his chest every time he inhales. “Like crap.”

 

There’s a heavy exhale from Sam as he sits down next to Dean, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs to keep them close. Dean watches Sam, sees the lines of worry marring his forehead and feels a pang of remorse that he can’t help. He’s the big brother, he should be looking after his little brother and worrying about him, not the other way around.

 

“I’m sure it looks worse than it actually is Sammy. You know me I just bruise easily. I’m just too delicate.”

 

Sam rests his chin on his knees and doesn’t say anything.

 

“What is this place?”

 

Sam finally perks up at the question, his arms loosen from around his legs, “It looks like a disaster movie or something. Post-apocalyptic city I think. Doesn’t seem to be anything or anyone around.”

 

It takes everything Dean has to not fall asleep, eyelids leaden, and not leave his brother alone in what sounds like a desolate realm.

 

Speech slurred, eyes closing, Dean huffs out the words,” Wonder if aliens attacked?”

 

Dean dozes, falling in and out of consciousness. He’s not sure if he dreams or not, but when he is startled back into consciousness by a twinge of pain or Sam putting his jacket under his head, he wakes with the thought of an angel in a trench coat each and every time, it comes with an agonising twist to his gut.

A mote of dust bobs in the dusk light and as Dean watches he slips back into sleep’s embrace.

 

This time when Dean wakes it’s different because unlike before, there are two voices. Without opening his eyes Dean listens to the conversation, keeping his breathing pattern relaxed.

 

“I’m sorry Sam.”

 

“I know you are Cas, I do. But it doesn’t matter how many times you say it, because you’ve gone too far this time. Just look at him…it’s a miracle he’s alive.”

 

There’s an awkward pause, a shuffle of fabric. Dean imagines Castiel moving his weight from foot to foot, like he’s something too big and vast that’s being crammed into an awkward human body.

 

“He would be dead if this was Earth. I’m…I’m doing my best to keep him alive.”

 

“Your best? What does that even mean Cas?” Sam’s voice is strained, a threat of violence riding the undercurrents.

 

There’s a weary inhale from Castiel. Once more Dean pictures the angel’s shoulders slump. “This isn’t my realm Sam. I shouldn’t be able to influence anything here, including Dean. But my…mental problems have given me an advantage…I’m sure you’ve been told, but each realm is controlled by the owner’s thoughts and imagination. I seem to be the only one who can interfere in another realm.”

 

“Great. Thanks Cas, I’m glad being bat shit insane comes with its advantages.”

 

“Yeah me too.”

 

Eyes flickering open Dean smirks at Sam’s wide eyes and Castiel diverts his gaze, deigning to look at the crumbling remains of a vending machine.

 

“Dean…”

 

Shaking his head slightly Dean licks his lips, tasting the chalkiness in the air, “No Cas, it’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it. Anyway, all the times Sam and I have wailed on each other, I guess it was your turn to try again.”

 

Castiel seems breathless for a moment, chest rising and falling rapidly, “I…I can heal you Dean, if you’ll let me.”

 

Sam shoots a look at Castiel and the angel hunkers down into the depths of his oversized coat. The image makes Dean smile, “No I’d rather be in pain Cas.”

 

The wounded look that crosses Castiel’s face makes Dean sigh in exasperation and Sam stumbles over to Cas, hands awkwardly hovering near his shoulder, “Dean was being sarcastic Cas, he wants you to heal him. Dean’s just too proud to ask directly for help.”

 

Dean grumbles and glares up at Sam, weakly raising his hand to flick his brother the bird. “Bitch.”

 

“Jerk.” Sam counters, just like old times.

 

“Oh.” Castiel breathes, “I see.” Walking over, Castiel crouches down next to Dean, shoes grinding the gravel scattered on the stone floor.

 

Slowly, Castiel reaches out to Dean, his fingers outstretched. A tiny flinch runs through the Hunter as if fighting a conditioned response to recoil from the pain. Castiel draws back slightly, brow creased, “Dean, I’m sorry. Won’t you let me make things better now?”

 

Dean exhales in a rattle and nods stiffly. This time he lets Castiel peel away the sleeve of his shirt, revealing the stark red lines of the scarred imprint of the angel’s hand. Cool fingers lay themselves onto his bicep, fingers splaying over the scar.

 

A white light blossoms from the spot, pulsing softly in the waning light of dusk. Immediately Dean feels relief spreading through his body, chill and numbing. As Dean watches blood is cleaned away, scabs flake and fall and for a few alarming seconds he sees his whole chest shift and move as his ribs meld back together.

 

There’s no pain, just a slight discomfort as though invisible hands are prodding and poking, gently nudging broken bones back into position. There’s a tickle on the back of his hand and when Dean looks at it he sees his tanned skin knitting itself together again.

 

Glancing up at the angel sitting at his shoulder he notices that Castiel has his eyes closed and mouth pinched in a line. “Cas?”

 

The angel shakes his head, grip tightening slightly on his arm as he concentrates.

 

Dean purses his lips and looks up at Sam. His brother’s brown-flecked eyes are soft and there’s a little smile playing at the corner of his lips. “What are you grinning about?” Dean asks, petulance coating every word.

 

“Nothing Dean. Just glad you’re going to be alright.”

 

With that Sam settles on the floor, back resting against a cement column and closes his eyes, that tiny smile still on his face despite Dean’s annoyance.

 

Dean knows his brother well enough to pick up a half lie. “Dean,” Castiel murmurs, eyes still closed, “Be quiet.”

 

“Why is this taking so long? Not that I’m ungrateful or anything…it’s just that you used to be able to heal me lickity split without the creepy light show.”

 

One eye peels half open to look down at Dean, who grins innocently up at the angel. Sighing, Castiel shifts slightly, causing his fingers to slip slightly from Dean’s scar. The movement causes a tiny spark to spit into the air, like a hot ember from a fire.

 

Castiel slides his hand back into place, causing Dean to shiver at the hard drag of Castiel’s palm against his surprisingly sensitive skin. “Because…” Castiel starts slowly, “This is not Earth Dean, I’m dead and this is not my realm. This will take some time.”

 

Dean shrugs, jostling Castiel’s grip and causing more sparks to spring from the handprint. “Dean, stay still,” the angel commands as he slots his digits against the raised imprint once more.

 

A mischievous glint enters Dean’s eye, “Touchy, touchy.”

 

This time he pretends to cough, completely dislodging Castiel’s hand from its resting place. “Dean!”

 

Sam jerks awake across the room, eyes wide and searching for a threat.

 

“Sorry Sammy, go back to sleep.” Dean utters through the smug smirk on his face, “It’s nothing to worry about.”

 

Huffing, Sam does his best to try and tuck himself back into a comfortable position before closing his dark ringed eyes.

 

A similar glare meets Dean when he turns to face Castiel again. “That wasn’t funny.”

 

Smirking, Dean lets his head flop down onto Sam’s jacket-turned-pillow, “And why’s that?”

 

A flush blossoms over Castiel’s cheeks and he turns away to look at a sizeable hole in the wall. “Because…”

 

Dean’s eyebrow quirks and a canine worries his lips, “Because..?”

 

Licking his dry lips Castiel’s gaze skitters over Dean’s face, in complete contrast to his usual penetrative stares, “It’s uncomfortable….and it will take a little longer if you keep fidgeting Dean.”

 

Like a fox on the scent of its quarry Dean persists, “And why is it that you have to heal me from that hickey you left on my arm huh?”

 

Despite the blush still colouring his face Castiel manages to direct one of his admonishing looks at Dean, “It’s not…a hickey. It’s simply a connection…it just makes the healing more effective. It has no special meaning.”

 

A short silence fills in the blanks; the room gets darker with the setting sun, turning the pastels to darker versions of themselves.

 

“Cas.”

 

“Mm?”

 

Dean chews his lower lip for a moment, “I just want you to know that...”

 

Castiel draws his hand away slowly, allowing the healing glow to fade away. Dean is temporarily blind in the sudden darkness. “I wanted you to know that I didn’t come here to rescue you just so you can fix your mess.”

 

There’s a rustle of fabric as Castiel turns away. With the Hunter’s poor vision he merely sees the stiff outline of Castiel’s jaw, “I came here because…shit…I missed you okay? I’m not good with this stuff.”

 

Standing, Castiel wanders over to the other side of the room, back turned to Dean. The angel crouches, pushing away rubble and debris as he scours the remains of the crushed vending machine.

 

Dean just manages to scry from the shadows the distinctive red of a can of Coca Cola and a small bag of jerky. “I have always tried to be of use to you Dean.” He utters as he turns, blue eyes pleading. “I could see no other way to stop Raphael…and being God felt good. To finally be in control of my own fate, to help others…I thought I could do change things for the better.”

 

Silently he walks back over to Dean, settling next to the long line of his body. Castiel holds out the Cola and jerky, “Are you hungry? I need to rejuvenate for a time before I can continue healing you.”

 

Dean takes the can and sets it to the side, but immediately rips open the packet of jerky. His mouth immediately waters at the smell of spices and tang of salt.

 

Popping a handful into his mouth Dean chews and hums gratefully at the meaty taste. Swallowing it all down Dean picks up the can of cola and rolls it between his palms, “I know you were trying to help. I forgive you for making a few mistakes, you just gotta help us put them right. That’s all I’m asking. You don’t have to stay with me- us, after we’ve dealt with the Leviathans.”

 

It all comes out in a rush and Dean quickly opens the can of soda and brings it to his lips, swallowing the fizzy drink in an audible gulp.

 

So much for no chick flick moments.

 

It’s only made worse when he hears a small chuckle from Castiel. “Dean, when will you understand that all I want to do is help you? Good times and bad. If I am able, and you willing, I will stay after we have conquered the Leviathans.”

 

Dean takes a sip from the aluminium tin, swirling it around his mouth before speaking, “You know this actually tastes like the real thing. You wanna try some Cas?”

 

The angel cocks his head to the side, “But I don’t need-“

 

Dean shoves the can an inch from Castiel’s face, causing the angel to blink sheepishly, “Just try some. You angel’s seem to have a sweet tooth.”

 

Castiel reaches up to take the drink, fingers wrapping around the warmed metal. He takes a cursory sniff from the opening, which earns him a sigh from Dean, “It’s not poison Cas.”

 

He nods, face serious as he brings the silver rim to his lips and with a slight tip of his wrist takes his first tentative taste. Immediately he holds the can away at arms length.

 

“What?” Dean asks, barely able to suppress the laughter that’ll be a bitch to his bruised abdomen if he lets it out.

 

“It…” Castiel begins, “…fizzed against my tongue…I did not anticipate that.”

 

Dean bursts into side-splitting laughter, everything still aches but he can’t help it, especially when he sees Castiel’s startled expression through his tear-streaked vision.

 

“ Fuck Cas, it’s soda, it’s meant to be fizzy,” he wheezes through fits of laughter.

 

“I see.” With that Castiel brings the tin back to his mouth and swallows an additional mouthful. This time he tastes the faint reminder of Dean on the metal rim.

 

“Damn, now I’m aching all over again.” Dean announces, wiping tears from his cheeks.

 

Castiel nods and hands the drink back to Dean, sucking his lower lip into his mouth to savour the sweet taste. He curls his hand back around Dean’s bicep, fingers digging into the smooth red marks.

 

The light ebbs back into life and sets a gentle glow like a child’s night light in the gloomy barren space.

 

“It’s only been a few minutes, you sure you don’t need longer?”

 

Castiel shakes his head and sends a strong pulse of energy through Dean, intensifying the light for a moment.

 

Scooping up the packet of jerky, Dean lays it on his chest and slowly chews through a piece. He’s wide awake after sleeping for what felt like over a day and as he glances over at Sam, fast asleep despite the cold hard floor it almost confirms the thought.

 

A soft huff draws Dean’s attention back to the angel healing him. A deep crimson dusting is on the angel’s face and he shifts and fidgets next to Dean. Castiel tries to turn his body away, leaning down marginally in what looks like an aborted attempt of the foetal position. Quirking a brow Dean angels his head, trying to find what’s causing the discomfort. Giving up, he asks, “What?” That’s when Dean notices the tenting of Castiel’s black trousers. “Oh.”

 

Dean clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as though burdened with an arduous task. Reaching over to Castiel’s fly his fingers pull at the small metal tag.

 

Castiel startles, leaving only the tips of his fingers pressed against the scar, “What are you doing?”

 

“Don’t make a big deal out of it Cas. You’re helping me, so I’m helping you. Simple.”

 

Castiel shakes his head, thick eyelashes fluttering, “You don’t have to do this Dean. I am fine.”

 

Dean leans up, pressing a kiss to Castiel’s stubble roughened chin, “I want to, Cas.”

 

A grateful sigh billows onto Dean’s cheek as he manages to wrangle down Castiel’s trousers and white underwear, releasing the angel’s erection.

 

There’s no hesitation as Dean reaches out, slowly rubbing his hand over Castiel’s hot skin. “You’re okay with this right Cas?” Castiel’s grip on his arm tightens, “This…It’s wonderful Dean. Don’t stop.”

 

There’s a phantom of a laugh from Dean, as he tastes the words. His thumb rubs over the slit of Castiel’s erection, smearing the first few droplets of precome.  Castiel’s lips are sealed shut, but a moan vibrates low in his throat.

 

“Don’t wake Sam” Dean whispers before he leans into Castiel, teeth nipping at his earlobe.

 

Castiel looks down at Dean and learns to simply breathe. To let go. To let someone else do something for him. It’s selfish but at that moment it doesn’t seem to matter.

 

Dean’s hand speeds up slightly, fingers tightly wrapped around his aching flesh. Castiel captures Dean’s lips with his own, tongue tasting the sugar of the cola and the salt and hot spices from the jerky. Dean swallows his moans, eating them whole.

 

This time it’s Castiel who breaks away from the kiss, shoulders shaking and hips thrusting into the sweet tightness of Dean’s calloused fingers.

 

Castiel feels sweat running down the hollow of his neck, he feels light yet restricted in his own flesh as the knot of pleasure in his gut grows.

 

Dean watches the angel twitching under his ministrations and feels his own dick starting to harden. His hand speeds up, twisting on the rise.

 

Castiel’s eyes widen, a silent scream on his parted lips as Dean feels the warm trickle of come running over his fingers. Castiel lets his eyes slide closed for a moment as he simply catches his breath. When he finally opens his eyes Dean is leaning back against Sam’s jacket, smugness radiating off him in waves.

 

Castiel rises to the silent challenge.

 

Keeping his hand in place Castiel deftly undoes Dean’s own fly and leans over his crotch, mouthing over the hard line of Dean’s erection that is still trapped in his tight black underwear.

 

“You trying to get one up on me Cas?” Dean murmurs, eyes hooded and breath shortening into breathy whispers.

 

Ignoring him, Castiel peels away the underwear and gives a tentative lick to the exposed cock.

 

Dean’s breath hitches in his throat, caught somewhere between a whimper and a groan.

 

“Shh” Castiel demands, breath ghosting over the flushed head of Dean’s cock. The angel’s lips part around Dean’s erection, cheeks hollowed as he sucks hard, hand tightening on the scar.

 

Dean’s whole body is thrumming, tingling, whether it’s from the blowjob or the healing or a combination of both, he doesn’t know and he frankly doesn’t care. “Shit” Dean grounds out, moaning and arching his hips, pushing himself further into the wet heat of Castiel’s mouth.

 

Sam shifts in his sleep across the room, but Dean is heedless as a particularly loud moan leaves his throat when Castiel brings his head back up, tip of his tongue running over the head of his erection.

 

“Dean, be quiet.” This time the angel isn’t asking as he slots his free hand over Dean’s mouth.

 

The position is awkward, Dean feels suffocated by Castiel draped over him, knees on either side of his legs, with his hands planted on his arm and over his mouth. Soon, Castiel resumes licking his cock in long hot lines, while a finger dips into Dean’s mouth, which the Hunter eagerly sucks.

 

The angel tastes crisp, like fresh rain but that doesn’t distract him from the mouth working wonders on his hard cock.

Castiel has started a rhythm, sliding Dean’s erection in and out of his mouth, lips sucked tight around the satiny skin. The hand on his arm is slowly massaging his scar and the light has ebbed to a faint smouldering glow.

 

Dean can hardly breathe, hardly think and with an instinctive jerk of his hips comes into Castiel’s mouth. The angel draws away, lips shining with spittle. The hand moves away from Dean’s mouth, trailing down his chin and neck, making him shiver in the aftermath of his orgasm.

 

“I think you’re all healed now Dean.” Castiel announces speaking as though nothing untoward has just transpired as the healing light finally dissipates in a fading halo.

With a sleepy smile Dean hums his appreciation; “You don’t know what soda is but you can give one hell of a blow job, I’ll give you that.”

 

 

℘

 

 

“Wake up.”

 

Bright sapphire eyes are staring down at him.

“What?” Dean asks, shrinking back against his makeshift pillow.

 

“We have to move, they’re closing in.”

Sam is already awake, pacing around the room with his shoulders set in a stiff line.

 

Dean sits up, expecting a flare of pain but everything is working as usual. “What’s closing in exactly?” A howl rends the air, echoing through the concrete skeletons of the empty buildings. His heart palpitates for a moment, bottle green eyes widening. “Hell hounds?”

 

Castiel shakes his head to dissuade the idea, “Not quite Dean, these are creatures from Raphael’s mind.”

 

Sam turns at that, dark bags under his eyes betraying his exhaustion, “This is _his_ realm? We’re totally screwed.”

 

At that Castiel shoots Sam a lopsided smirk, tucking his hands into his trench coat pockets. “Raphael himself will prove to be no obstacle, reaching him is the tricky part.”

 

With that said the angel pivots on his heel, stepping over a pile of loose rocks to step into the wan sunlight. Dean shrugs at Sam, equally puzzled, and pushes himself to his feet following after the angel.

 

The full scale of the destruction is laid out before the Winchesters as they step out into the open. The sunlight filters through a thick haze of dust and ash that has coated everything in a dark grey smudge, glass litters the ground, sparking when the sun manages to hit the shards and the buildings are husks, empty frames that groan in the breeze and poke ragged holes into the cerise sky.

 

Castiel is unaffected, weaving his way through the boulders and remains, trench coat snapping at his heels. They follow the angel for what seems like hours. The city is silent except for the whispering of the wind winding through the holes and cavities. Even the howling from the hounds has died down.

 

“Cas?”

 

The angel stops, looking over his shoulder, blue eyes startling against the monochrome background, “What is it?”

 

“We’ve been walking for hours man. We humans need to catch our breath sometimes you know.” Dean sighs and settles on the ground, taking out a reserved packet of jerky from his jacket pocket and handing it to Sam. “We’ll only be a minute Cas.”

 

Sam looks questioningly at the angel, but when he says nothing Sam takes that for permission and sits next to Dean, sharing the jerky and a tin of soda between them.

 

Yet neither Winchester can relax as the angel is constantly scanning the shadows and crevices. Exhaling in a puff, Dean looks up at the angel, temples pulsing with a headache, “What?”

 

Castiel stills, nose to the air to take in a scent, “They’ve caught up to us. We have to hurry.”

 

Dean stands, taking Sam’s hand and tugging his exhausted brother to his feet. Sam looks small in his rumpled jacket, skin sallow and hair lank. “We haven’t even heard anything for the past hour” Sam protests wearily.

 

“That’s the problem. They’ve all gathered to form a pack; the hounds are following our scent. We’re nearly there.”

 

The loose stones behind Dean trickle down in a cascade as a creature stands atop the pile. Dean turns to look, adrenaline spiking in his blood but feels himself rooted to the spot as he faces the beast. Two heads are wedged together in a black furred rippling body of muscle; the hound’s paws are decorated with thick claws that curve viciously downwards. The creature’s twin heads have their lips peeled back, baring short piranha-esque teeth that are coated with congealed spittle.

 

Sam’s hand wraps itself around his arm, breaking the trance and pulling him into the first step of their sprint, running after Castiel’s fleet form, coat billowing behind him.

 

The clatter of claws beat after them, getting closer every second. Dean springs over the remnants of a motorcycle with Sam just to his left, breath heavy and face glistening with perspiration.

 

As they round the corner of a dilapidated convenience store Dean catches a glimpse of the pack snarling at their backs. His mouth goes dry, his pulse speeds under his sweat soaked skin. There was at least a dozen, all of them strange variants of the first that he saw. Some with three heads, others with just one though they also sported hooked teeth that curled over their jaws; designed to latch onto their prey and rend flesh from bone.

 

Castiel leaps over a gaping crevasse in the road, where the sunlight falls into a shadowy abyss. Sam doesn’t even pause, long legs launching him over the steep drop but Dean skids to a halt, toes of his boots hanging over the crumbling edge.

 

“Dean, come on! I’ll catch you!” Sam shouts across, arms outstretched and welcoming.

 

The hounds are just meters away. Dean’s whole body is shaking; exhaustion and fear mixing together in a paralysing brew in his blood.

 

“I cant…” He breathes out.

 

It’s too late to attempt the jump as he hears the pack stumble to a halt in a flurry of scratches and laboured panting. Dean turns away from Sam and Castiel and faces the creatures that crowd around him in a tight half-circle.

 

There’s a gust of cool air, drying the beads of sweat from his cheeks. Castiel appears beside him, hand on his shoulder as he hands over his sword. Dean smirks as he takes the blade, swinging it in the air in a gentle arc to bring it out in front of him. “Here I was, trying to save you.”

 

Castiel merely smiles.

 

Dean rolls his shoulders, pointing the blade at the hound closest to him, “C’mere Lassie.”

 

Everything blurs into motion, the hound leaps with its twin set of jaws snapping, leaving Dean to twirl to the side, and he brings the blade down in a brutal jab. The sharp blade cracks one of the skulls, twisting in his grip as the thick bone splinters into the creature’s brain, drawing thick red blood and pale brain matter to the surface. With a jerk Dean draws the blade away and takes a step backwards to avoid the teeth of another hound.

 

A bright burst of light draws Dean’s attention to Castiel, who at arms length is holding a particularly large beast, four heads whining and howling in agony as light burns it away from the inside. Dean blinks rapidly, trying to banish away the creature’s skeleton that is imprinted on the backs of his eyelids.

 

“To your right!” Sam calls, alerting Dean to the hound running towards him. With a horizontal swipe, the tip of the blade peels back the matted russet fur, cutting a gash right through the centre of its spine. With a thud the creature drops, muscles twitching and flexing as blood wells over the hound’s heaving flanks, dousing the air with the metallic odour.

 

Another blast of white sears Dean’s vision, cloaking the hound that slunk over to Dean’s side.

 

The growl betrays it and Dean ducks low, twisting his wrist to stab the sword into its soft underbelly. With a whimper it falls, splashing blood against the bottoms of Dean’s jeans.

 

The remaining pack stills, ears pricked when a high-pitched screech erupts, making the broken glass lining the window frames tinkle like wind chimes.

 

In the distance a huge creature wanders into view and with a methodical slothfulness it treads towards the gory scene of battle. It’s paws squelch through the belly of a dying a hound as it stands before Castiel. The creature screams of ancient terrors long buried in the annals of history and retold through cheap horror movies. The majority of the creature is an oversized lion, mane thick and seeping a pungent smell. At its centre the golden fur of the cat thins into a battleship grey where the head of a goat hangs like a cut puppet off to the side, it’s horns broken and seeping a green fluid. And for a tail a serpent curls in the air, lavender tongue flicking out to taste the carnage. An image from a dusty old book springs to mind with the accompanying title: _Chimera._

 

Barely noticeable lies an ivory mask that lies at centre of the lion’s neck, depicting an old man’s wrinkled face.

 

Smoke whorls from its flared nostrils as it snorts and throws back its head, baring its elongated canines at Castiel. The angel smiles, crooked and cold and it sends a shiver down Dean’s back.

 

Castiel takes a step closer to the creature, blue eyes boring into the Chimera’s silver flecked pair.

 

There’s the sound of ripping, the sky trembles and warps as though there’s a heat wave. Out from the rip in the sky emerge two monstrous black wings that sprout from Castiel’s back, stretching around the Chimera, entrapping the creature in the wing’s shadows.

 

Dean is left staring at the scintillating oily black feathers as they bristle and puff up to make them seem even larger. Castiel’s body language changes accordingly, his chin is lifted, his gaze turns icy and there’s another twitch at the corner of his lips, turning the smile into something that speaks of self-satisfaction.

 

The Chimera’s metallic eyes are narrowed as they look up at the dome of feathers spreading above him.

 

“If you choose to withdraw I’ll spare your pathetic existence here.” Castiel’s voice is gravelly and deep, cutting through the atmosphere like a butcher’s knife.

 

The creature backs away, snake’s head hissing and spitting. Slowly, Castiel raises his hand where electricity darts between his fingertips. The lion ducks its head, mewling as it takes a shivering step away from the wrathful figure advancing upon it.

 

As soon as the Chimera has moved far enough away, it turns and flees, running down a narrow alleyway followed by the surviving members of the pack. An injured hound writhes on the road, lifting its head to yip after its brethren. The long flight feather at the tip of Castiel’s right wing stretches out with a muted hush, brushes along the creature’s temple and with a light blue spark the hound is still.

 

The angel swivels around to face Dean and the Hunter is reminded once more that Castiel is anything but human. Glowing white eyes stare at him, the faint outline of an aureole shimmers behind his tousled hair and his wings are stretched out, fanning the air gently.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

The voice is Castiel’s distinctive flavour but Dean hears the voice not only in his ears but also in the very marrow of his bones.

 

“Y-yeah. What was that thing?”

 

“Zachariah. His realm was destroyed by the Leviathan so he fled here as a loyal subordinate of Raphael.” 

 

A half-hearted frown creases Dean’s brow, “How come you didn’t go all Super Saiyan on the hounds in the first place and why the hell did Zachariah just turn tail like that?”

 

Castiel shakes out his wings, dislodging a feather that floats away on the breeze.

 

“I was willing to use the last of my Grace to destroy him. Zachariah knew I would do anything to protect you. But it was a gamble, I am weak here, I was uncertain as to who the victor would have been.”

 

Dean’s lips part, Castiel’s sword is suddenly heavy in his hand.

 

A beatific smile plays across Castiel’s lips and with footsteps that hardly seem to touch the floor he stands in front of Dean, abandoning once more the concept of personal space. The wings wrap themselves around him, stealing him away from the world. Inside the cocoon of feathers its dark and cool, the glow from Castiel’s eyes are two stars on the velvet canvas of night.

 

“Is this your true form?” Dean whispers, fingers slipping over the silky feathers.

 

Castiel shivers at the touch, “This is merely a hint.”

 

There’s a childlike wonder in Dean’s eyes and the ancient creature is also reminded that Dean is only a human, wrapped up in worlds and with creatures that he should never have even imagined.

 

“Hey lovebirds, don’t forget about me over here!”

 

Castiel laughs full-bodied and Dean blushes, pushing his way out of the tangle of feathers he’s found himself in. “Okay, okay Sam, don’t get your panties in a twist.”

 

“Dean, brace yourself” Castiel intones.

 

“Wha-?”

 

There’s a vice like grip on his shoulder and suddenly the ground is rushing away, Dean’s belly drops like when an elevator falls too quickly.

 

“Holy shit.”

 

Castiel’s wings beat the air and for a moment Dean is suspended in the sky, with just a hand on his arm. It seems oddly familiar.

 

The moment seemed to last for an age but soon Dean’s on solid land again, standing next to Sam.

 

Sam reaches out for him, holding Dean as his knees shake, threatening to crumble under him.

 

Smirking, Sam pats Dean’s back comfortingly, “You over your fear of flying now?”

 

Dean merely groans and pushes Sam away, scowling all the while.

 

“Don’t do that again.” He snaps out, fingers curling into loose fists at his side.

 

When Dean raises his head, regular old Cas is standing there in his tatty trench coat and badly fitted suit, with soft blue eyes – no wings in sight.

 

“It’s not far now.” Castiel deadpans as he takes a long stride past the brothers. Once more they’re left in the angel’s wake, following him blindly through the detritus of the fallen metropolis.

 

Dean looks around, at the desolate world and marred sky. Maybe this was just a vision of the future, the inevitable end. Sam catches his eye and shoots him a weary little smile, one that only just reaches the corners of his eyes.

 

Minutes later and Castiel stops at the entrance to a dark alley. A rancid scent wafts from the shadows, drying Dean’s mouth. Fresh corpses don’t smell half this bad. Castiel ducks into the alleyway, shoes splashing in the viscous puddles of slime as he heads towards a shape concealed in the gloom.

 

The shape moves and an inhuman wail reverberates off the wall as Castiel falls to his haunches next to the being. As Dean gets closer the shape becomes clearer, revealing the thick brown robe covering the dark skinned man. “This is Raphael? I didn’t imagine him as the type to feel guilty over anything.”

 

Sam is standing back from Raphael, hand clasped over his nose and mouth. His voice is muffled as he speaks, “Maybe he feels guilty for not bringing about the Apocalypse?”

 

Raphael’s hands emerge from his robe, clasped together as though praying. His sunken eyes tilt upwards; his scabbed lips open with an audible creak.

 

“Dean, he wants to give you the final item.”

 

Dean grimaces, gaze flashing to the long yellow fingernails crowning Raphael’s fingers and the veneer of grime coating his skin.  Taking in a shallow gasp of air Dean holds his breath and crouches down next to Castiel and stares at the hollow cheeks and glazed eyes of the once powerful archangel. Raphael shakes his hands, causing a slight click.

 

Lungs burning, Dean holds out his palms.

 

Raphael’s emaciated hands part, letting two lustrous green stones fall into Dean’s hands.

 

Quickly, Dean stands and backs away, inhaling the putrid air into his burning lungs. Sam has already turned away, complexion wan as he steps out from the alley, soon followed by Dean and Castiel.

 

Sam looks at the stones in Dean’s hands curiously, head tilted to the side, “Jade?”

 

“They were a reward from my Father for rescuing Dean from Hell. The jade orbs represent my first vision of Dean. Even in Hell his eyes shone so brightly.”

 

Dean clears his throat, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot, “Well here you are Cas, you can have ‘em back.”

 

Reverently, Castiel plucks the cool stones from Dean’s hand and slips them into his trouser pocket.

 

In the next blink Castiel is gone and where he was standing a black hole ekes into existence, eating away at the footpath to leave an ominous pit from which an icy wind bites at Sam and Dean’s skin.

 

Peering over the edge Dean swallows down the ball of tension knotting his throat, “That’s gonna be a long fall.”

 

Sam chews at his lower lip, shooting glances towards his big brother.

 

“What?” Dean asks, stepping away from the swirling black vortex at his feet.

 

“I just wanted to say that I was wrong.”

 

Dean pulls his signature lopsided smirk, “Aren’t you always?”

 

Sam cuts him off with a frown, “I was wrong to say that we shouldn’t come here and rescue Cas. He’s my friend, like a brother, and he’s always been there for us. I know you won’t ever admit it to me but I saw you kiss him-“

 

“Oh god Sam” Dean groans, hand slapped against his forehead, “Can we not have the ‘I don’t mind that you’re gay and boning an angel in a dudes body’ right now please? This isn’t the time.”

 

“What I’m trying to say is that I would go after Cas, even if you weren’t with me. We need his help. You need him.”

 

Quirking a brow, Dean regards his brother with a sceptical eye, “Fine. Can we go now before you start with the hugging?”

 

Sam smiles and steps up to the edge of the inky portal, where tendrils of dark energy slither up their legs. Dean didn’t deny a word.

 

 

**_Leviathan_**

 

 

The air is cold, wrapping its icy fingers around them. Fog ghosts over the sodden earth and leaf litter, cutting their feet from their silhouettes in the eldritch half-light.

 

“This is it right? The Death Star?”

 

Dean’s gaze roams over the bleak landscape; the barren trees are charred as though from a forest fire and seep an onyx sap, the sky is a whirling mass of violets - streaked with vermillion veins and a black pond to his right burbles with wet pops.

 

From out of a copse of trees Castiel appears, face pale with the burn of frost.

 

Silently, he strides over to Sam and Dean, standing before them with a strange stillness. “Follow me.”

 

The mist parts, forming a perfect pathway, lit at intervals with tiny bursts of cerulean flames. Castiel follows the path. For a moment Sam and Dean hesitate, letting the angel grow smaller and smaller, till his form is nearly lost in the twilight.

 

“Does this seem right to you?”

 

Dean huffs and raises a brow, “Not in the slightest” before trailing after Castiel, who glances over his shoulder and smiles with thin, taut lips.

 

Sam clenches his teeth, the tendon under his skin jumping as he joins Dean, brushing past a small orb of light that flickers and dies out as he passes. The forest becomes increasingly strange as they venture through it. The trees come to life; branches wriggling like serpents with the knotted trunks turning to watch the trio’s passage. There’s the sound of crows cawing, yet the birds themselves are missing. Black spores cluster around the edges of the path, and little puffs of silver dust are emitted at random intervals. The flat ground slowly beings to slope upward, taking them over the side of a small hill.

 

As Castiel crests the hill he suddenly stops, and turns, beckoning Dean with one finger, languorously curved.

Trepidation settles in Dean’s stomach. All of his instincts are screaming that this isn’t right. This isn’t his Cas.

Sam’s arm settles on his shoulder, “Dean…maybe this is just an illusion?”

 

The angel’s brow is corrugated with a frown, “Sam, it’s me.”

Casting his blue gaze onto Dean, Castiel creeps forward slightly, “Please, Dean.”

 

Taking in a deep breath Dean closes the gap between them.

With a lunge Castiel’s arm binds itself around Dean’s back, pressing Dean flush against his chest. It’s so sudden that he’s frozen, shock locking his limbs. Grabbing Dean’s chin, Castiel pries apart his jaw and leans in, pressing his lips against Dean’s. His tongue snakes in and for a horrifying moment of lucidity Dean feels a warm liquid pool into his mouth. Dean closes his eyes, pushes against the creature with every ounce he has and tries to stop breathing, to not swallow the sweet syrup soaking his tongue.

 

The world goes white around the edges. His nerve endings are singing with pleasure, sparking a heat in his gut. Dean never even notices Sam trying to pull the Leviathan off him. Dean pushes forward, deepening the kiss, tongue twisting around the Leviathan’s to get every last drop of the sweet toxin from its mouth. A purr rumbles through Dean’s chest as he rubs his groin in long arches over the hard line of the Leviathan’s hip.

 

The Leviathan pulls away, lips reddened from the kiss.

A thin and greedy moan betrays Dean. Nothing matters, just the kiss, the taste from the Leviathan’s mouth.

His head becomes lighter, the world increasingly detached. Dean blinks, raising a hand to his temple as the sudden onslaught of dizziness makes the horizon swing like a seesaw, eventually driving him to his knees.

 

Pain, sharp and sudden stabs deep into his heart like a serrated dagger.

 

The sweetness cloying his tongue turns from a honey to oil, coating his throat and burning him from the inside out.

 

Dean rolls over onto his back, watching the sky and a trail of grey clouds as they scud over the mauve tapestry. Sam’s face hovers over him, mouth moving but no sound escaping.

 

Sam turns away, fury eroding at his common sense, “What did you to him?”

 

The Leviathan shrugs and picks at a piece of dirt under his nail, “Just something to make him more complacent, _turn him_ to my way of thinking.”

 

Sam stood, vaguely aware of the wandering mist that began to creep back upon him, closing off the path they had taken. “Cas, you have to be in there. Save him. Save Dean.”

 

The Leviathan’s lips peel back into a menacing grin, teeth pointed into sharp ends, “Hm, no, it’s all me now. Birdy isn’t going to break through to save the day again. It’s. game. over.”

 

With a groan Dean sits up, eyes liquid lime. Sam whirls to face him, heart thudding in his chest. He is faced with a smirk, devoid of warmth, plastered over Dean’s face, where black veins trail up his cheeks and disappear into his hairline.

 

“Dean?”

 

Strange eyes swing over to him, as if lit from behind with a tea light. Nothing in Dean’s expression changes, no flicker of recognition. Instead he rises to his feet in a graceful roll of his body, flexible as any serpent.

 

Passing Sam by, Dean trails his hands down Castiel’s chest, provoking the Leviathan into another possessive kiss. The kiss is a battle of dominance between the two creatures, teeth clicking against one another, nips and sharp bites to each other’s lips. Eventually the Leviathan growls, pinning Dean’s arms to his side and takes his mouth - forcing Dean to take, to bend under his dominance and will.

 

“Change him back Castiel.”

 

With a roll of his eyes the Leviathan pulls Dean to his side, running a finger over his lips to wipe away a droplet of blood. Dean’s gaze soaks in the ruby smear, tongue wetting his puffy lips.

 

“How many times do I have to tell you Sam. _There is no Castiel._ ”

 

The realm shakes with the words, the sound of glass splintering, on the edge of falling apart completely, echoes like church bells through the wooded landscape.

 

“Dean,” Sam murmurs, body-quivering, voice feeble and lost. “You’re stronger than this. You can’t leave me here by myself.”

 

Dean curls his lips back, looking upon Sam as though he were nothing more than a smudge on an otherwise perfect view. Threading his fingers through Dean’s hair, the Leviathan rests his elbow on Dean’s shoulder, fingers massaging Dean’s scalp in tight circles.

 

“ You know Sam, at first - I was going to keep you - nail you to a tree, and peel away your eyelids. Forcing you to watch as I twist your brother’s body to my liking. But now – now you’re just pissing me off.”

 

The Leviathan steps forward, skin wriggling with dark lines, look possessed with rage.

 

Sam watches Dean from over the Leviathan’s shoulder, sees nothing. Not a twitch. Not a tremble. Nothing.

 

A hand lands, weighted and portentous on his shoulder. Fingers curl and hook themselves in, nails digging into Sam’s flesh. His knees buckle, forcing him to the ground. The hoary vapours crawl up his torso, claiming him. Sam looks up at the Leviathan’s raised hand and closes his eyes as he waits for the inevitable impact.

 

The hand is ripped from his shoulder, cutting through his jacket and leaving angry red welts on his skin. Sam’s mouth is numb as he watches Dean viciously twist Castiel’s arm, forcing the creature to turn its back to Dean and fall to its knees in submission. It struggles and writhes, viper with its head cut clean from its shoulder, as it spits strange words. Dean grunts, pulling back on the Leviathan’s arm. The words are spoken now with two voices but from one throat and even though Sam doesn’t understand them he feels the meaning in his blood, the primal part of himself. It’s a curse and a plea all at once. Dean pauses, seemingly able to understand the tongue.

 

His brother bites out a word and with it he pulls back on the Leviathan’s arm. It throws its head back, throat shining with sweat and bulging with his renewed cries. With a final, powerful jerk there’s a crack, a pop and a rip. There’s no cry this time as the Leviathan falls to his side, panting. Its arm is left twisted at a strange angle.

 

Dean turns on his heel and stands over Sam, warm smile cutting through the darkness. Sam rises to his feet, still shaking and unsteady. Not needing words Dean sprints down the gentle slope with Sam at his heels. There’s a scream of fury that threatens to split the sky.

 

Dean’s pace slows after a few minutes, back bending under an invisible weight. Skidding to a stop Sam glances back up the hill, expecting the Leviathan to materialise at any moment. “Dean, what is it?”

 

His brother raises a hand, begging for silence. Lurching forward Dean falls to all fours, chest heaving as he vomits. Black slime splatters the rotting leaf litter. Heave after heave, more and more is expelled. Sam kneels at Dean’s side, hand resting on his back, feeling the muscles straining to rid his brother’s body of the toxins, flesh burning like a brand.

 

The smell is acrid burnt plastic and caramel, sweet with a harsh bitterness underlying it. Dean groans, coughing slightly as he stares numbly down at the black pool seeping through the leaves. “Fuck.”

 

Sam runs his fingertips in a soft line over the back of Dean’s neck. “Feeling better?”

 

Panting, Dean nods and gingerly puts his feet under him. Beneath Dean’s freckled skin, there’s a hollow bloodlessness to his complexion. “Can you make it?”

 

Dean lightly slaps Sam’s arm, “Remember how hung-over I was when we hunted that poltergeist in Maine? I’ll be fine. Really.”

 

The hairs on the back of Sam’s neck prickle, sending a shiver down his back. Under Dean’s ragged breathing he hears a twig snap. Silently, Sam hooks his arm under Dean’s. There’s no complaint or snappy remark as Sam helps him to walk between two tall trees, so close together that their roots intertwine, snakes in a basket.

 

A strange feeling descends upon Sam as he tugs his brother along beside him. It’s oddly welcoming, a breath of crisp air in the ozone scented atmosphere. The trees run in circles, getting tighter and tighter, drawing him into its centre.

 

The light here isn’t grey or muted, despite the branches curving over him. Instead it’s almost golden like the sun after a rain shower. Dean unhooks himself from Sam and wipes a hand over his mouth.

 

A glimmer of bronze sparks in the light, catching Dean’s attention. He stumbles closer, body still aching with the poison. Upon closer inspection the source of the bronze and the other objects clustered around it come to light. Leaning down, Dean hooks his finger under the worn black strap of his lost amulet. Like a magpies trove all the other items they had collected on their journey were here. The number plate, the box containing the fragments of sharp glass, the two jade orbs that subtly glow with an inner heat. Castiel’s blade is there too, deadly point gleaming. Sam purses his lips and stares down at the blade, deciding in that moment to take the blade, keeping it safe at his side.

 

Dean lets the amulet fall from his lax grip, leaving it to bounce on the soft layers of decaying vegetation.

 

A moan filters to them. Sam passes through the final line of trees, taking them to centre of the spiralling circle of trees. He is completely still, staring at something that Dean can’t see. Slowly, pulse fluttering under his skin, Dean rounds the tree and immediately feels a sickly clamminess break out over him.

 

There are three trees. Unlike the rest these are red, bark soaked through with blood. Upon each tree is a corpse, a trophy nailed to the thick trunks. On the far left is the angelic version of Dean, feathers whittled away so the sharp white ends protrude from the dead flesh. His chin is resting against his still chest, exposing the gaping wound eating at his ribcage, even now small patters of coagulated blood drop onto the soil surrounding the tree. On the far right is the human version of Castiel. There’s no stench of copper or ruby hue soaking his clothes. His lips are navy and eyelids powdered with bruises.

 

And at the centre is a living, breathing, pained being. Rusted iron nails are driven through the bones of his wrist causing blood to drip from the gory wounds, crucifying the angel. Tired blue eyes stare back at Dean as Castiel weakly raises his head. Dean’s life of training kicks in as he rushes up to Castiel, fingers running over the bruises on his face, the blackened eye, and the ugly brown nails that have torn at his pallid skin. Dean’s hands rest on his cheeks, righting the angel’s head, forcing the glazed eyes to meet his gaze, “Cas? Cas, hey, look at me. Come on man. I’m here now.”

 

“Dean?”

 

“Yeah, yeah it’s me. You’re going to be okay now.”

 

Castiel nods his head, sagging against the tree in relief. Carefully Dean wraps his fingers around the first nail and pauses, terrified of causing more damage, of pulling the crude torture device out at an angle, tearing ligaments, fracturing bones. Suddenly Dean can’t breath, the air too laced with death and decay for him to bring himself to the ground again.

 

Sam is right there though, tender mahogany eyes watching him. “You won’t mess it up Dean.”

 

Tightening his grip around the head of the nail, Dean slowly starts to pull it free, grimacing at the wet sucking sound. Castiel sets his jaw, nostrils flared as he sucks in air. Dean concentrates on his task, nearly has the metal free from the gushing hole, when he hears something walk into the clearing behind him. Castiel stiffens, moving the nail inside his wrist, causing more dark blood to gush from the increasingly ragged wound.

 

The air is electrified, the first lick of lightning lacing the air. He doesn’t need to look to know that the Leviathan is breathing down his neck.

 

Sam leaves his side, “Sammy?”

 

“Get Cas down Dean. Hurry,”

 

Dean gives the nail one final tug and it comes free. Castiel’s arm falls to his side, his weight falling more heavily on the other nail, pushing it against the fragile bones in his wrist. Heart jumping into his throat Dean hears Sam’s sword cutting into something and a resulting, mocking laugh.

 

When Dean reaches out to the other nail he feels Castiel quivering under him. His chest constricts as he leans forward slightly, pressing his lips against Castiel’s forehead. The angel smells of salty sweat and fresh rain, just like before. “I know I haven’t always treated you right Cas. And you ain’t innocent either. But we can put all that behind us.” Dean draws away, surreptitiously twining his calloused fingers around the remaining nail. The gaze that meets his is sharp, familiar penetrating blues. “I love you Cas. I’m not afraid to say it anymore.”

 

“Dean, I-“ Castiel croaks, but Dean silences him with another chaste press of his lips against the angel’s, “I know, you’ve said it already.”

 

There’s a grunt of pain, and the sound of something slicing through the air. It brings Dean back to the present and he begins to pull the other nail free from its fleshy sheath.

 

“Just get it out Dean.” Castiel whispers into his ear, “It’s not real.” Dean pulls just a little harder, quickening the flow of blood oozing over the curve of Castiel’s wrist, “It feels real though. This place is just another version of Hell. Your dad’s a dick Cas.”

 

A mirthless smile twists Castiel’s lips, “I know.”

 

Finally the nail comes free and Dean drops it, letting it roll next to its stained brother as he catches Castiel’s weakened form. Now Dean allows himself to glimpse at the fight going on behind him. The Leviathan’s shirt has been cut, revealing a thin red scratch running horizontally over his torso. Miraculously Sam looks no worse for wear, only out of breath.

 

The Leviathan is transfixed, staring at Castiel in horror. The angel rises to his full height, though he’s still panting from the pain coursing through his body. Something though has changed, the power balance has shifted and suddenly Dean feels safe under the growing shadow of Castiel’s wings. Sam senses it too, and when the angel approaches him he wordlessly passes the blade over. A look passes between them. Dean cocks his head to the side, vaguely annoyed as the meaning is completely lost on him.

 

With the silver blade in hand Castiel approaches the Leviathan. The sky turns from its putrid purple to cobalt. “Castiel” The Leviathan murmurs, “You can’t get rid of me. I’m already up here,” He states whilst giving his temple a meaningful tap.

“I know.” Castiel counters, “But this, I can do.” Springing forward Castiel drives his sword through the Leviathan’s shoulder with a squelch. Castiel’s other hand joins his grip as he keeps up his momentum, pushing against the creature till its back hits a tree with a thump.

 

Castiel steps back, revealing to Sam and Dean the thrashing Leviathan who is now pinned in the grotto, facing his other brothers. Its hand reaches up to the sword, yet the hilt glows an intense hot sapphire, peeling away its skin and charring its flesh. “This will never be over Castiel. You’ll make it out, but if you ever let your guard down, even for a moment…I’ll be back.” It bit out in a hiss, teeth bared in a snarl.

 

Castiel turns his back to the creature, wincing as the mad laughter pounds at his back like a fist. “And you know what I’ll do! You’ve seen it all play out here. The game’s just begun my little bird!”

 

“Come,” Castiel mutters as he walks between Sam and Dean, leaving them for a moment to stare at the grinning visage staring back at them from the tree. Tar pools over the higher branches, undulating over the sweeping curves. Sam rips his gaze away but Dean steals a few seconds more. The Leviathan's smile slips away as the first patters of jet slime hits his face. In what Dean supposes is a delirium he sees sorrow on the Leviathan’s face, lips pulled down, eyes widened with fright. Its blue eyes are shining. Anxiety pins Dean’s chest as he falls back a step, sole of his boot sliding over the wet floor. The Leviathan’s fingers twitch at his side and finally he raises his hand against the torrent. It waves.

 

Dean doesn’t return the gesture as he follows the footprints left for him to find. When he finally catches up to Castiel and Sam they’re waiting for him, side by side. Both of them are worn and haggard, a state Dean feels reflected in the ache of his muscles, the emptiness of his gut and the migraine pulsing at his temple.

 

The entrance of a dark cave yawns before them, a throat leading into what appears to be an impenetrable darkness. His footsteps echo against the stone floor as he takes the first step in, blind, taking a leap of faith. Shadows surround him, soaks into him. He closes his eyes and there’s no difference. He hums Metallica to pass the time, to ease his disquiet. The notes of _Wherever I May Roam_ echo eerily in the cavern. Carefully Dean makes his way and slowly opens his eyes again. A bright glow, like no city or man made creation has ever conjured, pools from the roof. Glow-worms dance above him, lit with the glow of grace. Turning to his right he sees Sam. Turning to his left he sees Castiel. They’re almost touching, so narrow is the cave.

 

Castiel’s hand finds his, fingers intertwining as they take the final few steps into a growing white light.

 

 

℘

 

 

Dean sits up, eyes gummy with sleep. He’s slumped in the hard wooden chair of Rufus’ old hunting cabin. The storm is still raging outside. Swinging his head around Dean looks at the clock, only seven minutes have passed.

 

Sam is asleep across from him, arm cushioning his head from the beer stained table.

 

Dean swipes a hand over his face, groaning. He knows it wasn’t a dream, though his body doesn’t ache, he still feels the myriad of emotions swimming thick in his blood. Fear, anger, shame and that strange, wonderful, frightening feeling for Castiel.

 

Pushing the chair back, Dean crosses over to the old metal sink. With a squeak he turns the cold-water tap and splashes his face, dissolving the fuzz from his mind. Lifting a dripping hand he looks at his skin, feeling unclean despite the absence of grime. His heart is still pounding, a cold sweat springs to his skin as he looks up and out of the window. Where’s Cas?

 

Lightning strikes outside, a wriggling blaze of hot yellow against the night. He can hear the trees groaning. He’s had enough of trees for a lifetime. Give him a shitty motel in a cement town any day.

 

At first he thinks it’s a tree tapping against the window. Yet when the rhythm is even and insistent Dean finds his fingers curling around the lip of the sink, his heart speeding up a notch.

 

Cautiously, Dean makes his way to the door, scanning the dark square windows for any movement that’s out of place.

 

The smooth wooden panes of the front door stare at him accusingly. Rubbing the back of his neck Dean rolls his shoulders, hand hovering over the dull brass handle. His fingertips graze the cool curve and with a final intake of breath Dean pushes open the door.

 

There, drenched to the bone from the driving gale is Castiel.

 

“Hello Dean.”

 

Dean exhales, feeling himself smile. “Hey Cas.”

 

Leaves blow in through the open front door, scuttling along the threadbare rug. “May I come in?” Castiel asks, eyebrow raised.

 

Dean stumbles out of the way as Castiel enters, closing the door behind him.

 

Clearing his throat Dean crosses his arms over his chest, “What took you so long to get here?”

 

Castiel looks around the cabin, at the antler chandelier suspended from its rusted chain, the coal blackened fireplace and at Sam still sleeping peacefully at the table. “I had to rebuild my body from the lake.”

 

Dean’s lips pull back in mock disgust, “No details on that gory little number please.”

 

“I was chosen from my garrison to rescue you from Hell because I specialised in restorative healing. My own body was no trouble.”

 

Smirking, Dean sidles up to Cas, “Does that mean my body was trouble?”

 

Castiel lets out a puff of air, “Yes.” Dean’s eyebrows jump, “Oh yeah?”

 

Scalding eyes turn on him, Castiel breathes as though revelling in the euphoria of fresh air. “You saved me.”

 

“Yeah well, we couldn’t have done it without you. What made you decide to help us in the end?” Dean grins to lighten the mood, puffing out his lips slightly, “Other than my hot ass of course.”

 

“That’s something for later Dean, right now all I want to do, is this.”

 

Castiel slips his hands onto either side of Dean’s face, tugging his lips towards his own. It starts out soft, but deepens and lengthens; teeth clicking, tongues exploring and twisting. The tips of Dean’s hips roll into Castiel’s, in a delicious and intimate grind.

 

Bottle green eyes, framed with thick black lashes meet Castiel’s, baring everything, holding back nothing. “Welcome home.”

 

 

**_Epilogue_ **

 

The bluish light from the cheap television set bathes the room. Dean pads barefoot into the space, rubbing at the sleeping dust that clings to his lashes. From behind the couch he sees the outline of Castiel’s head, brunette hair sticking up in odd directions. The grey SucroCorp logo flashes across the screen, then slides away to give room for the grinning countenance of Dick Roman.

 

“Cas, come back to bed, it’s 4am.”

 

Castiel merely shakes his head and reaches across the battered coffee table for something. Dean sees the little yellow boxes indicating the rising volume appear on the TV set.

 

“Okay then Cas.”

 

Dean heads back to their room alone, now wide-awake. He had awoken when he had reached across to the left side of the mattress, where Castiel’s warm body usually lay. Tonight though, like many other nights the cheap cotton sheets were cold and empty. Throwing back the sheets he throws himself down onto his side.

 

He turns onto his back and stares up at the faint outline of the wooden beams on the ceiling above him. He concentrates on simply breathing, smelling a hint of pine needles and wood, the musk of Castiel’s and his own body on the covers and the perpetual smell of dust.

 

Dean guesses that an hour has passed before he picks up the sound of the television clicking as it’s turned off. He hears the couch shift as Castiel stands and then his quiet footsteps. The angel seems to hesitate outside the closed door.

 

“Come on Cas, I’m getting cold.”

 

The door swings open and the first hint of dawn light allows Dean to see Castiel’s bare chest, the smooth lines outlined by the gloom.

 

Dean pulls back the covers and Castiel slips under them. Immediately the angel pulls himself flush across Dean’s side, his lithe body fitting perfectly besides Dean’s broader form. Dean tugs Castiel even closer, tucking his arm under Castiel’s rib cage. They simply breathe and look at one another, as though seeing each other for the first time. They’re so close that Castiel can feel Dean’s breath brushing over his lips.

 

“I’m glad you came back.”

 

Castiel nods his head slightly, hair whispering over his pillow.

 

Castiel can see perfectly in shadows. There’s very little he can’t see. Sleep is a rare thing for him; it sometimes eludes him for over a week. Tonight is one of those restless nights. Dean can’t sleep either now.

Dean is sometimes able to hide his age, there’s a youth in his laughter and in his smile.

 

But Castiel sees the Hunter’s age when he lifts Dean’s hands to his lips, letting the warm skin brush over the scars, calluses and wrinkles that mar the young man’s hands. Dean shivers and tries to pull his hand away, but Castiel’s fingers tighten possessively as his mouth trails to Dean’s fingertips. Most humans have soft fingertips so that they can feel and touch everything around them with the highest sensitivity. Yet Dean’s fingertips are almost tough when Castiel’s tongue laves over them, they belong to a much older man.

 

But nothing breaks Castiel’s heart more than when he raises his gaze, looking up at Dean’s face as he continues to kiss the man’s world weary hands, as much as Dean’s jade green eyes.

 

Inside Dean’s eyes Castiel sees the man’s soul, a soul that he had torn from Hell’s breast and had meticulously worked back into a man’s. He had rebuilt the Hunter’s body, levelling out the hormones, delicately balancing the interplay of the synapses and sewing together the soft pliable heart that beats in Dean’s chest. Yet never could he truly fix Dean’s eyes and the soul that they house. For both Dean’s soul and eyes are also far older than the body they reside in.

 

They speak of pain and war, of loss and sacrifice, of self-doubt and a deep loathing. Castiel breathes deeply through his nostrils, smelling gunpowder, leather and Dean’s own distinctive scent. Sometimes, like right now, when Dean is looking down at him, wondering how an angel fell so far for so broken a man, Castiel sees that flicker of love, and nestled within it hope; hope for the world, hope for his brother and hope for them, together.

 

Castiel finally allows Dean’s hand to fall to the side and the angel’s tanned fingers reach up to cup Dean’s stubble kissed cheeks.

 

“Dean Winchester” Castiel murmurs, sapphire hued stare boring into Dean’s widening greens. Nothing more needs to be said, the name is spoken like a benediction, full of purpose, quiet pride and deep devotion. With that Castiel leans up slightly and pauses to let Dean close his eyes. Gently Castiel presses his lips to Dean’s right eyelid and then moves to lay his lips on Dean’s left.

 

Castiel pulls back ever so slightly.

 

“Cas” Dean breathes, “I love you.”

 

Castiel closes his eyes and feels a smile smooth over his lips, and this one doesn’t hurt.

 

**END**


End file.
